Murder with the Lot (19 page)

‘No, Dale investigated it himself.'

‘Did Kev have any enemies?'

‘Well, probably. Who doesn't?'

The moonlight lit up Terry's profile. He had a decent-sized, old-fashioned nose, not one of those little snub noses so many fellas go in for nowadays. Terry didn't have any enemies, surely.

‘What was in his briefcase, Cass? Was there something in there makes you think it wasn't an accident?'

‘Not really. Just those books. So, was there anyone who wanted Kev dead?'

‘It was an accident.'

‘I just mean…hypothetically. Did Grantley have his eye on the business?'

‘Grantley? God knows what he's doing to that place. I want you to know I'm the decent one in the family.'

‘What about Kev's clients?'

‘What about them?' He started kissing my neck again.

I struggled free. ‘Who were they? Was Donald Streatham one?'

‘Donald was an old friend of Uncle Tony.'

‘What type of old friend?'

‘Well, he gave him that parrot, Baldy. Uncle Tony loved that bird.'

‘What about Mona Hocking-Lee. She's a client, isn't she?'

‘Yeah. Their biggest. And my boss.' He looked at his watch again.

‘Have you got somewhere else you need to be? More trees to plant?'

‘No, no. I don't want to be anywhere but here with you.'

‘Take the watch off, then.'

He put it on the bedside table, Piero's old bedside table. Terry looked at me, took my face in his hands. His eyes were serious. ‘I'm really not like my family. You do believe that? Tell me you'll always believe that. No matter what?'

What was he expecting would happen to change my mind?

‘Course. I can see you're not like Dale. And you don't really seem the handcuffing-to-the-railway-line-wearing-a-bridal-dress type.'

‘Thing is, I'd like to spend more time with you, Cass. A long, long time. I wouldn't want to lose you.'

Men. I'll never understand them. Why'd he have to get all negative and broody just when things are going well?

‘Thing is, you haven't got the hang of the rumball procedure yet. I'll have to enrol you in an adult education course, some one-on-one tuition. Night classes, mostly.'

He kissed me, a slow style of kiss I felt I could possibly get used to.

Later, Terry's arms around me, I fell asleep.

The sound of a cat wailing woke me. I rolled over, remembered Terry, reached over for him. The sheet was cool, the bed empty. In the dark, I groped around for my clock, found it. Four-thirty. Where was Terry? Switching on the light, I scanned the room. No Terry's clothing on the floor, no Terry's watch beside the bed, no chewed-off arm lying on the pillow.

No note on the bedside table either. Huh. A fella could leave a fleeting note at least, wake up a woman to say goodbye. How much work is it to say goodbye? I had a heavy feeling in my chest. Was he off to see some other woman? Maybe he had a horde of them, different skin complexions and shades of underwear, in different towns.

Maybe that's what the ‘will you believe me in the morning' routine had been about.

I stood up, took Piero's photo down from the chest of drawers, dusted it. Piero was never one to nick off in the dark. He took up the whole bed and snored all night. I sat down, photo in my lap and cried a bit. Was I ever going to get over bloody Piero?

‘I don't want to forget you,' I whispered to his moistened pic. ‘But I'm still alive. Although I'll admit sometimes it's hard to tell.'

I headed to the kitchen to make myself a cold drink of Milo, crunchy across the top. Clicking on the kitchen light, the first thing I saw was Terry's phone, still there on the mantelpiece. I stirred my Milo and stared at the phone. I took a sip. Well, it wouldn't harm anyone to just take a little look at it. Everyone knows integrity has inbuilt flaws.

Picking up the phone, I scrolled though his contacts. No names that seemed especially female. Three messages from Dale. I took another sip of Milo. Maybe Monaghan had texted something relevant, something important that could help Dean keep his station. I clicked on the first message:

Mate. How'd it go?

Then:

Call me.

Third message:

Where are you? That stupid bloody woman sorted out?

And who exactly would she be? Gritting my teeth, I went into Terry's sent messages. One to Dale:

Got the old bag. Now what am I supposed to do?

I blinked twice. Old? I flung the phone across the kitchen, it smacked against the wall, I got up and stamped on it. Swore out loud. Slumped at the table, I was holding the cool glass of Milo against my hot cheeks when Brad ambled in, yawning, his hair sticking up in tufts.

‘What's going on, Mum? And why's there coconut all over the kitchen floor?'

‘Long story.' I didn't move. I was considering staying slumped there for a longish period.

Brad pulled out a chair, sat down. ‘I saw Terry's car out the front when I got home. Did you have a nice night?'

‘Terrific.'

‘Is everything OK?' He paused. ‘Is that your phone smashed up on the floor?'

‘Not exactly.'

He put his hand on my arm. ‘You know, I was never too sure about Terry. There was something not quite right. Something about him didn't add up.'

‘Thanks for that compelling data.' I sniffed.

‘Come on, Mum. There's plenty more fish in the sea.' He passed me a tissue. ‘Well, strictly speaking there aren't… But you know what I mean.'

He patted my arm. ‘Lots of nice blokes out there. Looking for someone kind-hearted and loyal and conscientious, someone like you.'

‘Thanks.' I blew my nose. ‘Look, I'm fine. Having a quiet Milo. You go back to bed.'

Brad mooched back along the hall.

I crunched through my Milo. Terry probably left that phone there for a reason. One of those subconscious things, like how a person will be talking to another person, knowing there's one thing she mustn't say.

‘Is that a wooden leg?' or ‘How'd you lose that arm?' or ‘Noel bought some moist-wipes,' that type of instance.

A person can freeze right up, in that position, can't think of anything except the one thing she mustn't say. Until she blurts it out.

I sat still. Yes, I still hadn't found out why Noel-slash-Donald bought those moist-wipes. Or why Aurora wanted to talk to me.

I limped along the street, torch in one hand, precautionary plate of lamingtons in the other. It was just after ten p.m. I'd had a slow day in the shop; plenty of time to hone my master plan.

Vern would probably be out, playing the pokies down at Hustle, Boofa tied up out the front of the pub. Going to make his fortune someday, Vern often tells me. See the world, pay off his debts. ‘And what'll you say then to my little merger proposal?' he asks.

Vern would have information in that notebook, information he wouldn't even recognise as significant.

I scurried on past Showbag's gate. Arriving at Vern's out of breath, I paused. His hammock was swinging white and ghostly in the wind. A car's headlights approached and I froze against the wall, Cat Burglar Barbie. The car went by. I slipped around the side of the shop, to the house behind.

At the back door I heard a noise, darted a look over my shoulder. The Hill's hoist creaked, turning slowly in the wind. Vern's chooks clucked from inside their shed as they settled for the night.

No problem getting in. The shop's a different matter, but Vern never locks his house. By the door, I had a twinge of scruples. But it's not exactly breaking in, not when you've brought a plate of lamingtons for the fella. Freshly made. Vern's quite partial to a lamington, he's often told me so, with a hopeful look.

‘Vern? You in?' My voice sounded edgy. Of course he wasn't in. The lights were off, his car was gone.

The only sound was something scratching in the roof. A small and scuttly something, possibly a rat type of something. I opened the door. I listened, plate balanced in one sweaty hand. No telly noises, no stomping around the house sounds, no bathroom sloshing. I slithered in, as noiseless as a scrap of whispered scandal.

In Vern's dim kitchen, my breaths came quick, in nervous pants. It was a kitchen full of dark corners. The air had the musky tang of bloke-on-his-own. Was that breathing I could hear? I clicked on my torch, flicked it round. The air moved behind me. I whirled around. Nothing. Just the back door swinging. Calm down, Cass. Just rats or mice.

How hard can it be to find a stupid notebook anyway? I searched all through Vern's bedroom, rootling through his drawers, rustling through the pile of newspapers beside his bed, flipping up his mattress. There was a pile of vivid magazines underneath that mattress. I flipped it down again real quick. For a fella his age, Vern has a shocker of a libido. Finally I found the notebook under the kitchen table and I limped home as fast as I could with the book tucked underneath my arm. I remembered to take the lamingtons as well, no point in wasting them.

Back home, I shoved Brad's magazines aside and sat down on the couch to leaf through the pages of Vern's book. I found notes on a bewildering array of cars coming and going from Rusty Bore, a list of Vern's customers each day, what they bought and what they said. All in his terrible spider-handwriting. It wasn't easy relearning how to write using his wrong hand, he told me once. Exactly how Vern lost that arm is a mystery. It was gone when he arrived in Rusty Bore twenty years ago, and he's never mentioned it. I asked him about it once, but he just frowned; puzzled, like he couldn't remember where he'd put it.

He'd noted down the details of that grisly day when Showbag had his accident. I didn't linger there, flicking forward to study these past few days, see who'd been in town. There was a lot about myself.
That Tuplin woman's holding back on something. I just know it
.

Another entry:
Why's that orange ute pulled up outside her place again?

She came in today in that blue number she wears to show off her figure. She had suspicious drycleaning.

And another:
Is she up to something with that fella in the white van? She's a mantrap, that woman. She watched his every move around my shop with a hungry kind of expression. Was that what she was doing at Perry Lake? Has she been up to something filthy in the back of his van?

This was followed by some densely written Vern-fantasy involving a swarm of energetic women who held him down inside a van and wouldn't let him out.

Finally, I got to the list of items Donald had bought.
Fella bought a pack of moist-wipes. What's a bloke like that doing with a moist-wipe? Can't be good
. Good old Vern, maybe he could recognise significant after all. Vern's a natural note-taker. He could have been a court reporter if he'd had the arms.

Come on Vern, I whispered, tell me about Aurora. What's her mobile number? I ate a lamington, then turned the page, looking for his notes on the last two days. Nothing. I held the book up to the light. Rough edges, where…What? Three pages had been ripped out.

I searched, no other torn-out sections. I remembered those sounds I'd heard in Vern's kitchen, the swinging back door. Had someone been in there? The hairs on my arms stood up like an Antarctic breeze just gusted in.

A mopoke let out a hooting call. My leg throbbed. I rubbed it and ate another lamington to ease the pain.

Torch in hand, I headed for my front door. I was turning the handle when I heard a car pull up outside. Opening the door a crack, I peered out.

‘Mum?' Dean walked across the gravel, heavy crunching footsteps. ‘You should have that leg up.'

Quick smart, I stuffed the notebook down my dress and opened the door wide. ‘Dean, how nice! But I'm just heading off to bed.' The notebook was riding up my chest.

‘Have you put on weight?' He peered at me. ‘I don't know why you won't use that tongue patch Melissa found for you at Whitey's.'

Holding my arm, he walked me slowly towards my bedroom, like I was some kind of prehistoric invalid. ‘Melissa could stick it on for you. You'd definitely lose weight. Apparently you get agonising pain on your tongue every time you eat.'

He paused outside my bedroom door. ‘Look, I know it's late but I wanted to warn you about Donald Streatham. He's got history. Been in jail for smuggling native bird eggs to overseas collectors. He might be up here after local cockatoos. Worth millions to collectors, Mum, bloody millions.'

‘Like Brad said.'

‘Yeah.' Dean's mouth turned down like it always has when something doesn't suit him. ‘Look, promise me you'll stay away from Streatham?' He gave me a pleading look, the kind he used to give me as a kid when he was after a third serve of ice cream. ‘A bloke like that could be very nasty.'

I nodded, crossing my fingers behind my back. I wouldn't normally lie to a police officer. Dean'd understand, later on.

Waiting until his car started, I scurried out my back door. But as I limped along the road towards Vern's place, past Showbag's gate, I heard a car behind me. Dean again? I whirled around. A ute slowed beside me, the sound of country music surging out.

Vern wound down the window and leaned out. ‘What you doing wandering the streets at bloody midnight?' He turned down his radio.

Quick as I could, I flipped up the back of my dress and shoved the notebook down my undies.

‘You hiding something? And why have you got a torch? You're not thinking of snooping in my private regions again, are you?'

‘A person has a right to walk around when she feels like it.' I gave him my dignified expression. ‘And I didn't mean to snoop the other day. I'm just terribly worried about that girl, Aurora. I think Donald's taken her as a hostage.'

‘Donald Streatham?'

‘Yeah. He's an international bird smuggler.'