Wakefield Press
The Popeye Murder
A journalist for more than thirty years, Sandra Winter-Dewhirst spent ten years as the state director of the Australian Broadcasting Corporation in South Australia, overseeing a branch of 350 people across television, radio, and online production. With degrees in the arts and journalism from Adelaide University and the University of South Australia, she has sat on a range of arts boards and advisory councils within the media industry. In 2008 she was named one of South Australia’s fifty most influential people by Adelaide’s daily paper, the Advertiser. Sandra has a passion for food and wine and all things Adelaide and South Australian.
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wakefieldpress.com.au
First published 2015, new edition released 2018
Copyright © Sandra Winter-Dewhirst, 2018
All rights reserved. This book is copyright. Apart from
any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research,
criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act,
no part may be reproduced without written permission.
Enquiries should be addressed to the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Most names, characters, places, brands, media, and
incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Where real people’s
names and establishments are referenced, it is within a fictional setting. The
author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various
products and establishments referenced in this work of fiction have been
used without permission. The author has neither sought nor been offered
money or any inducements to include reference to products, businesses and
establishments in the book. The publication/use of any trademarks is not
authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cover designed by Dean Lahn, Lahn Stafford Design
New edition edited by Margot Lloyd, Wakefield Press
ISBN 978 1 74305 545 8
For my husband Kym
Author’s Note
The Popeye Murder is set against the backdrop of Adelaide and South Australia, with its strong food and wine culture.
The main chefs—Leong Chew, Francois Bacone, Nick Pecorino, and Will Oliver—are purely figments of my imagination.
Some of the characters are an amalgam of people I have known, read about, seen on television, or heard on the radio over a lifetime, but mainly they are just made up. Some characters I would love to know if they were real people—others, probably not.
While I name actual restaurants, wineries, newspapers, and other products, I have not sought nor accepted any money, goods, or other incentives to include reference to them in my book. It is purely my editorial choice as to which Adelaide establishments are referenced in the book. Many of the establishments are entirely fictional.
Some years ago, Adelaide was dubbed the murder capital of the world in a poorly researched British television documentary. In some quarters the label has stuck. However, in 2013, a university study ranked Adelaide as the safest city in Australia with the lowest rate of crime per capita. When you consider Australia has one of the lowest crime rates in the world, Adelaide could more accurately be described as the safest city in the world. But for a writer of crime fiction, murder capital of the world has a certain ring to it.
I hope you find this story a fun read. It is set in a city that is just a little bit different.
The Head
Rebecca
Rebecca wondered if she was looking at an elaborate hoax. She wasn’t.
Along with a dozen other journalists and food-industry celebrities, she had just witnessed the unveiling of the baked head of one of Adelaide’s most celebrated chefs. The head of Leong Chew sat on a pewter platter. The cloche had just been removed, revealing Leong Chew, clearly not at his best.
Leong’s head had been shaved, except for his signature plait still attached to the back of his head and wrapped artistically around his severed neck.
His waxed moustache glistened. His entire head was glazed. Leong’s poached eyes stood open and appeared to take in everyone on the small ferryboat, ironically called Popeye. Nestled around Leong Chew’s head lay roasted kipfler potatoes, parsnips, carrots, and miniature apples. Rebecca thought the apples were most probably crab apples.
In that brief look at Leong, an image that Rebecca knew would be imprinted forever in her mind, she noticed that over each of Leong’s ears were sprigs of holly. Rebecca thought the holly was an unusual flourish given it wasn’t Christmas—but then again, whom was she kidding? The entire scene was an unusual flourish.
Days Earlier
The Australian Food Festival was Nick Pecorino’s baby.
He’d chosen Adelaide to be the venue for an adventurous week of thinking about, discussing, and eating South Australian-sourced food and drinking fine South Australian wine.
It was a biennial event and had only been held twice before. The next festival was due in November, less than five months away. The festival was a mecca for Australian foodies. The first two festivals had been successful, attracting chefs and food writers—not only from Australia but also from around the world.
Nick had received enormous encouragement and financial help from the South Australian government. The media had covered the last event generously. Adelaide’s only daily newspaper, the Advertiser, was a major sponsor, giving extensive coverage both before and during the festival. It was this year’s coverage of the festival that Nick Pecorino wanted to discuss with the Advertiser’s food and wine editor, Rebecca Keith.
Rebecca stood in front of the mirror. She had showered and was drying her hair. Up until a few months ago, Rebecca’s blond hair had been cropped close to her head in a smart, modern style. Rodney had liked it short.
Despite dating Inspector Rodney Storer of the Drug Investigations Unit for two years, Rebecca had never lived with Rodney. It was the not living together that had eventually caused the end of the relationship. Rebecca had been ready for commitment—Rodney hadn’t.
The ultimatum had come, and Rodney had exited. It had hurt Rebecca more than she was willing to admit, but she knew ending the relationship was the right thing to do. She wasn’t going to waste her life on someone who wasn’t going to be there for her when it mattered.
Rebecca was a youthful-looking thirty-seven with a soft face. Her smile was her best feature. It lit up her face. Her eyes were turquoise blue. She had long limbs and beautiful hands. Her fingers looked like they belonged to a pianist, long and elegant. She rarely wore nail polish. That would have been too fussy for her.
Rebecca poured her ample figure into freshly washed black jeans and a T-shirt under a red turtleneck sweater, with black ankle boots and a well-cut black blazer.
She walked the few blocks from home to the Advertiser building on Waymouth Street. She preferred walking whenever she could, as she never tired of looking at Adelaide’s Victorian bluestone architecture. It was also a good way to work off some of her culinary and alcohol indulgences.
Rebecca walked into the office, greeting those around her as she threw her tote under her desk. Turning on her computer, she struck up a conversation with Reg Cooper, her boss, asking the same question of Reg as she did every working day.
‘What’s up, Reg?’
Reg rose to the occasion, as always.
‘I’ll tell you what’s up. These young journos wouldn’t know a bloody story if it hit them betw
een the eyeballs. They spend all their time on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram or trawling through other news sites, trying to get away with plagiarising some other poor bastard’s work. Kiss their foot, will they get out of the office and talk to real people.’
‘That’s a bit unfair, Reg,’ said Rebecca, turning on her computer. ‘With the constant deadlines for both online and the print edition, it’s tough getting out. You know as well as I do that Twitter and Facebook are the platforms where most stories break. The world’s changed, Reg, and you know it.’
‘Yeah, yeah ... It’s a bloody shame, though. There’s too much pandering to other people’s agendas. Not enough original journalism. Getting out and talking to people, that’s where you get the best yarns.’
‘Depends how you look at it, Reg. You can source a lot of information off social media.’
‘Talking about getting out,’ said Reg, changing the subject. ‘You seem to have no trouble getting out and stuffing your face. Where are you getting a free feed today?’
‘I’m having lunch with Nick Pecorino at the Red Ochre.’
‘Tough life. Make sure we get plenty of exclusives out of this deal. And try not to drink too much. You need to be on the ball to make sure you aren’t sweet-talked into giving too much editorial away.’
Rebecca only had time to quickly refamiliarise herself with the long list of requests Nick Pecorino had put to the Advertiser’s food supplement, Taste, in exchange for giving the paper prominent recognition. There were also some dollars to change hands, but she left that detail to the marketing department. Editorial was her bag, even though she would need to liaise with marketing so it could monetise the editorial contribution. But it all seemed doable. Plus she had a few ideas of her own she wanted to discuss with Nick.
Rebecca had decided on the Red Ochre for lunch. She’d known the chef, Robert Mason, for years. The first time she had tasted his food was at The Lodge in the Adelaide hills. Robert liked to call his food Australian cuisine rather than bush tucker like some, as he thought the latter sounded too down-market. The food, with its unusual taste of the Australian bush, was like nothing she had eaten before.
When she was growing up, her father only ever took the family to pubs for a counter meal, where the choice was normally restricted to schnitzel the size of the plate, overcooked battered fish and chips done in six-month-old lard, charred T-bone steak, or, at the lower end of the price list, lamb’s fry and bacon swimming in stodgy gravy.
Rebecca took a taxi to the Red Ochre. The restaurant sat on the northern banks of the River Torrens. The floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooked the modest but elegant skyline of Adelaide. Nick was already seated, but he rose to kiss her on both cheeks.
‘Hello, darling. I’m so pleased you could make it,’ said Nick as he helped her to her chair.
It wasn’t long before Nick was in full swing, detailing his plans for that November’s Australian Food Festival. Rebecca explained her own ideas, and the two were engrossed in conversation when the waiter arrived to take their order.
‘My God, man,’ Nick barked. ‘Can’t you see we’re in a conversation? Come back in five minutes.’ Nick smiled at Rebecca. She was embarrassed.
‘I think we really must look at the menu, Nick, as I have a lot of work back at the office this afternoon. And besides, I’m hungry.’
‘Okay, darling, if you insist. What’s it going to be?’
Rebecca ordered the sausage made of kangaroo, lamb and emu, with crisp prosciutto, mash, spicy tomato, pepper-berry jam, and grain-mustard glaze. Nick ordered the pepper-leaf linguini pasta with a trio of wild mushrooms sautéed in garlic- and sage-infused truffle oil.
After conferring, Rebecca selected the wine, a 2008 Heartland Directors’ Cut Limestone Coast Shiraz, described as having ‘enticing twists of eucalyptus and just a whisper of spicy old oak’. Its grapes came from Langhorne Creek and Bordertown regions.
The waiter served the ciabatta bread with a dish of extra-virgin olive oil and caramelised bush-tomato balsamic vinegar.
Between mouthfuls of bread, Nick pointed to Popeye as it made its turn by the weir, directly in front of them.
‘We’ll be on Popeye Friday week for the launch of the festival program. My God. On Popeye. Don’t those little ferries just symbolise Adelaide? It’s kitsch, but I love the idea,’ gushed Nick.
‘Popeye is cute, albeit a little old fashioned, Nick.’ Rebecca paused before she added, ‘Although it should provide pretty pictures for television and print. Pity it’s winter though. The photos would be even better in the morning light of a bright summer’s day.’
‘You’re coming to the dinner on Thursday week, aren’t you?’ said Nick.
‘Yes, looking forward to it. But I understand you’ve only invited six people. Surely that will put a few people’s noses out of joint?’
‘Oh well, can’t please everyone. Besides, I’ll be hosting so many promotional lunches and dinners over the next few months, everyone will get their fill,’ said Nick.
‘Wattle House is a good choice. The Adelaide Hills are beautiful at this time of year. So who are the lucky six, apart from you and me?’
‘Leong Chew is designing the menu and supervising the chefs, but he will also be a sit-down guest. Jonathan Riddle—he has to be there, as Leong wouldn’t hear of not having his boyfriend with him. Then there’s Dorothy Plant from the tourism commission. God, she’s been good to us. Anything I wanted. She’s kept that goth of a tourism minister ... What’s her name again?’
‘Paula Hull,’ said Rebecca.
‘Yes, that’s right. Someone really should tell Paula about her makeup. That bouffant jet-black hair and that dark eye shadow and eyeliner. At her age? She looks like Morticia from The Munsters.’
Rebecca didn’t respond. She was always irritated when people talked about women, particularly women politicians, in such a superficial way. Male politicians were rarely criticised on their appearance.
Nick took a sip of the wine before continuing. ‘Dorothy is able to keep the money coming from the minister’s office without too much interference or the need for accountability as far as I’m concerned.’ Nick paused for a minute while he took another mouthful and added, ‘Oh, and Francois Bacone will be there.’
‘What? You know Leong feels threatened by Francois. They’ll be at each other’s throats.’
‘Yes, yes ... I know,’ said Nick. ‘But Francois is the future—we’ve got to keep one step ahead. To have Francois involved will add extra sparkle to the program launch and bring out more people. Leong will just have to live with it. It may even do him some good. He needs a bit of a kick along. Get him out of his rut. Francois’s Le Petite Choux Choux is booked out weeks in advance, while poor old Chewie’s has empty tables even on a Saturday night.’
Nick paused before he added, ‘To be honest, Rebecca, Leong is fortunate to still be involved as heavily in the festival as he is. And as for Leong supervising the cooking for us on Thursday night, I was very tempted to ask Francois to take charge.’
‘Does he know that Francois will be a guest?’ asked Rebecca.
‘Yes, I told him last night. He was outraged, of course, threatened to pull out. But he won’t—he can’t afford not to be there. If he pulls out of the dinner, he’s frightened I’ll pull him out of the entire program, and then where would he be? Further down the spout! So he blustered and carried on a bit but then took the high moral ground and said that he would be the professional he has always been and not allow this “insignificant man” to upset his apple cart. Which of course is exactly what he has done. But let’s not be logical.’
Rebecca was looking forward to the dinner. They were to spend the night in the villa and attend the festival program launch the next morning. It got her thinking about what she would wear. The dress would have to be glamorous with a touch of theatre.
Wattle House
What was on the agenda today? Rebecca loved making lists. She had a long list of to-do lists. Shopping
lists, work priority lists, weekly menu lists, professional and personal goals lists. Rebecca didn’t feel in control until she had gotten whatever was going on in her head onto a list. She even gave lists to other people. She used to give her ex-boyfriend Rodney lists.
Rodney normally had screwed the list up in front of her and defiantly said, ‘I’ll remember.’ Much to Rebecca’s satisfaction, he never did.
Rebecca started making a list for that day. Go into town and buy a low-cut, long black or possibly red dress, preferably with sequins or beads. She had a long black chiffon dress, but the neckline was conservative, showing nothing of her rather large assets. It wouldn’t do on this occasion. Her thirty-seventh birthday resolution had been to take more risks and pursue some adventures—this included her wardrobe.
Next on the list was work. She planned to arrive at noon and work through to about four. After all, thought Rebecca, tonight would be work. By four-thirty, she planned to be soaking in the bath. By six she would be dressed in a smart, casual outfit, with her overnight bag packed and her new dress and jacket in a suit bag, waiting for the taxi driver to honk his horn.
And it pretty much panned out that way. Rebecca was a good organiser. She was never late.
The taxi pulled into the gravel driveway of the Piccadilly mansion just before six thirty. Drinks were not until seven o’clock, so Rebecca had plenty of time to unpack and change.
The drive up into the hills had been rather eerie. The fog had started appearing at the Crafers turnoff, and with only a half moon, the night was dim. Visibility was down to a few metres, and the gum trees along the side of the road had been only visible in the headlights for a few seconds at a time. At one point the driver had had to break hard to avoid hitting a koala crossing the road, and at any moment Rebecca had expected a kangaroo to come through the windscreen.
Driving up the gravel driveway was made somewhat easier by the fact that the gum trees had been festooned with fairy lights twinkling softly through the haze of the fog.
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