‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly go out to lunch. I’m in no state for lunching, Rebecca.’
‘Look,’ said Rebecca. ‘I have to go to d’Arenberg winery for work and thought it would be a good idea to stay for a bite to eat. It would do you good to get out of the house. You’ve been holed up here for four days. You need to divert yourself. I know it’s hard, but you have to force yourself. It will get better but not without you doing something to move on with your life.’
‘We can’t even bury him, Rebecca. How can I move on with my life when we can’t even have a funeral and bury Leong and say our proper goodbyes?’
Rebecca understood. ‘I know it’s difficult. This is far worse than just losing Leong to an illness, as hard as that would have been. And the fact that we are both suspects complicates it further.’
‘Oh, God, Rebecca, how can you say either of us could be considered a suspect? Could you even begin to imagine that I would kill the love of my life? And you are the last person on earth I would suspect of being Leong’s killer.’
‘No,’ said Rebecca gently. ‘I know you didn’t kill Leong. Do you think I would be here asking you out to lunch if I thought there was even the slightest possibility of you being the killer? But the fact is, officially, we are suspects.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jonathan. ‘At least knowing that’s something. Knowing you understand that my love for Leong could never lead to me ...’ At this, Jonathan broke down again into sobs.
Rebecca gently led him over to a chair at the breakfast table, sat him down, and poured him a cup of tea. She knew that even though Leong and Jonathan had sometimes fought like cat and dog, they had loved each other deeply.
They sat quietly sipping their tea, Rebecca making a conscious decision to just let things be and allow him time to gather himself.
Taking his last sip, Jonathan placed his cup in the saucer and declared, ‘Okay, I will go with you—but only on two conditions. I drive, and we go in my car.’
Rebecca moaned inwardly. Jonathan loved driving but was a terrible driver. When he was behind the wheel, Rebecca couldn’t help but compare Jonathan with Toad from Wind in the Willows. She half expected him to shout ‘Toot toot!’ as he sped along. The business that Jonathan brought to his local crash repairers was legendary. He was on a first-name basis with all of the workers. They drove him home and personally delivered his car after every bingle. Jonathan loved his car and despite all his crashes, with the help of the crash repairers, kept it in mint condition. It was a classic 1972 Mercedes-Benz 280D, finished with an elegant interior including a walnut dashboard and tan leather upholstery.
‘All right. You can drive, but you are not allowed to speed!’
‘It’s just what I need,’ said Jonathan. ‘I love taking Ralph out on country roads.’ He hopped up from his chair.
Rebecca smiled to herself at his inclination to name his cars. While she had never met Ralph’s namesake, Jonathan’s late father, she knew that he too was a lover of vintage cars.
‘You need to have a shower and get dressed,’ declared Rebecca. ‘But before you do, have you got all the olive-picking gear ready for Saturday?’
‘Oh, I’m not up to doing that this weekend. I thought we would cancel it this year, given the circumstances.’
‘No, I think you’re wrong. This is just what we need. You need to keep yourself busy. You need diversions, and this one will be perfect. You know how much fun we have. We need to celebrate life. We have to do this.’
Jonathan paused but finally blurted out, ‘You’re right. It will get our minds off this dreadful murder. I’ll have to get the nets and other gear down from the attic in the shed.’
‘Don’t worry about that. You go and have your shower, and I’ll go get the gear down and have it all ready to load into your truck come Saturday morning.’
Already looking like a load had been lifted from him, Jonathan agreed and took himself off to the bathroom to shower.
Rebecca went outside through the kitchen’s side door. The gravel extended off the horseshoe driveway and made another path down the side of the house and finished at the wooden doors of an old stable that now housed cars, with its upper floor used for storage. The stable was made from rubble and various types of stone, bound together with limestone mortar. The roof was covered in chipped slate, and two dormer windows peeked out of each side.
Rebecca pulled on one of the old wooden garage doors. It stuck on the gravel, and she had to lift the heavy door up before she could free it. She did the same to the other side. It would have been easier to enter through the door down the side of the shed, but she knew Jonathan had to reverse Ralph out, and the larger doors would have to be opened anyway.
Rebecca walked past Ralph, stopping momentarily to look at the car. It was a beautiful old car. Its hubs matched its cream paint job, and she had always thought that its front resembled a Rolls-Royce, albeit much more modest.
Rebecca took the rough staircase up to the attic. It was stuffed full with furniture, tea chests filled with old clothes, and boxes of books. Rebecca nearly tripped over a chrome ashtray stand. The dust on the stand had pitted the chrome work, and there were patches of rust where the chrome had been chipped.
Rebecca looked around, trying to locate the olive gear. There was a wonky pathway down the middle. She wound her way along the path, scanning the piles until she came to the back wall of the stables. She was about to turn back when she saw a large chest that looked like the type her father had used to store cricket gear when he was the captain of his work’s team. The chest had a rope handle on each end and a latch that could be locked with a padlock if needed. Rebecca opened the lid and found most of the olive-picking gear—nets for laying on the ground, poles for hitting the tree branches, and an assortment of gloves. About ten black plastic tubs stacked into each other, for holding the olives, sat next to the chest.
The box was large but not heavy, and Rebecca thought she could bump it down the stairs. The rustic stairs weren’t going to mind a bit of knocking about, nor would the old chest. She grabbed the rope at one end and easily slid it along the floor.
She stopped at the top of the stairs, having one last look around before she began the descent. As she scanned the attic she looked up and noticed some dried herbs and plants hanging from the rafters of the stables. There were a few strands of plaited garlic, a branch of bay leafs, some strands of chilies, onions, rosemary and thyme, and a bunch of dried holly. The dried herbs and plants in the rural setting of the stable rafters looked rather beautiful. But the holly was unusual. Rebecca hadn’t seen holly in a dried herb mixture before. She had once been told by a naturopath friend that holly berries were poisonous, but the leaves could be used in a tea to treat anything from blood pressure to joint fever to heart disease. She also noted the unusual variegation of the holly leaves.
Then she stopped. She remembered where she had seen the red-veined holly before. It looked exactly like the holly that had been over Leong’s ears. What did this mean? Her mind raced. Was the dried holly in Jonathan’s shed an exact match for the holly on Leong’s ears? If it was a match, did it mean that somehow Jonathan was involved in the murder? Was he the murderer? Had she been wrong about Jonathan?
No! Despite what this looked like, Rebecca couldn’t shake her belief that Jonathan was not capable of murder, especially not of murdering Leong. There must be some other explanation. What should she do? Don’t panic, was the first thought that came into her head. She decided to take a piece of the holly and, at the first available opportunity, see Detective Inspector Gary Jarvie and give it to him. Gary would be able to get tests done to see if the hollies were an exact match, and then he could take his inquiries from there. Rebecca knew Jonathan couldn’t be involved, and decided not to tell him. Not yet anyway. She needed to cheer Jonathan up, and telling him about the holly would only upset him more.
She continued to drag the chest along the floor and began the slow bump down the stairs. By the time she had the c
hest beside Ralph, Jonathan had appeared at the shed doors. He was clean-shaven and wore a pair of jeans with a black T-shirt showing through the V-neck of a blue cashmere jumper. Over the jumper he sported an old-fashioned brown corduroy car coat. Jonathan also wore driving gloves that combined tan leather with cream crochet work. Rebecca wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d pulled out goggles, too.
‘Okay, I’m ready to roll,’ said Jonathan, already sounding brighter. He handed Rebecca her handbag, which he had taken the liberty of bringing with him from the house. Rebecca hopped into the front passenger seat. She sank into the wide seat and looked admiringly at the walnut dashboard, with its sparse array of round instruments. She looked across at Jonathan gripping the thin, large, and unadorned steering wheel, then her head was thrown forward as Jonathan reversed at breakneck speed, parting the gravel like Moses parting the Red Sea.
‘Jesus, Jonathan!’ Rebecca screamed as she reached up and grabbed hold of what had become known to all of Jonathan’s friends as ‘the Jesus bar.’ Rebecca was already terrified, and they weren’t even on the road.
Jonathan drove like a madman, skirting the city and weaving in and out of traffic along South Road. Rebecca moaned as he took a turnoff, knowing they were now in for a hair-raising ride along narrow and winding roads through bush and vines. She tried shutting her eyes but felt motion sickness. The only thing for it was to keep holding on to the Jesus bar and look straight ahead.
‘For God sake, slow down,’ said Rebecca.
‘But I am. I’m not going over the speed limit.’
Rebecca pointed to a sign. ‘What about that bloody sign? It says forty kilometres.’
‘Oh, that. That is for the bend and is purely optional. Silly girl.’
Rebecca rolled her eyes.
McLaren Vale had featured in the Taste supplement on many occasions, and Rebecca was familiar with its charms. Apart from some wineries in the Adelaide Hills, at thirty-five kilometres from the city, McLaren Vale was the closest wine district to Adelaide with eighty-eight cellar doors and wineries. The whole McLaren Vale area was nestled between the rolling Adelaide Hills and the sea of Gulf St Vincent, with a modest population of around two thousand people.
In what seemed like hours to Rebecca but was in fact only about forty minutes, Jonathan pulled into d’Arenberg winery’s car park. Rebecca stumbled out of the car. She felt sick. Jonathan bounced out of the car looking sprightly.
Sitting down on a nearby bench, Rebecca retrieved some of her composure and said, ‘Why don’t you have a bit of a wander, Jonathan? I have to catch up with the chef and discuss his spring menu, and then I have a wine tasting booked for twelve thirty.’ Looking at her watch, she continued, ‘It’s half past eleven now. Let’s meet in the tasting room at twelve thirty.’
Rebecca knew that Jonathan loved walking, especially in the bush. Like Rebecca herself, he was a great fan of long, muddy walks. A walk would be therapeutic. Jonathan readily agreed and took off along a path next to the driveway they had just come up.
Good, thought Rebecca, this will give me enough time to talk to the chef and get some ideas for the supplement. Rebecca took off in the direction of the restaurant kitchen and ensconced herself there, talking food for the next hour.
By twelve thirty, Rebecca had not only built up an appetite but a thirst. She made her way to the wine-tasting room, which, like the restaurant, had a beautiful view across vineyards and over the valley dotted with gum trees. On a really clear day, she could make out the waters of Gulf St Vincent, but it wasn’t clear today. The vines were bare at this time of year, but the view was still magnificent.
As Jonathan hadn’t come back from his walk, she decided to look at some of the wine trophies, memorabilia, and historical records that were scattered around the room, either framed or on tables. Rebecca was pretty familiar with the story of d’Arenberg, but she didn’t mind reading about it again. She particularly liked the fact that the founder of d’Arenberg, Joseph Rowe Osborn, had started buying land in the current McLaren Vale area in the 1880s from the winnings of one of his horses, Footbolt. In a nod to history, the winery makes a successful Shiraz called Footbolt.
After Rebecca finished reading one of the articles on the winery’s successes, including its Jimmy Watson trophy wins, she started to wonder where Jonathan was. It was now a quarter to one. Jonathan was not usually late. She tried not to catastrophise, but with the events of the past week, it was hard not to jump to worst-case scenarios. Had something sinister happened? Did he know something about the murder that made him a target? She felt a panic rise within her but repressed it. What should she do? Should she take the car and try to look for him? But she didn’t have the car keys—Jonathan did. Should she call Gary? She had Gary’s mobile. But what would she say? It wouldn’t sound rational to say Jonathan was fifteen minutes late from a walk; it was hardly a trigger for Missing Persons to put out a bulletin.
Rebecca pulled out her phone. She had already entered Gary’s number into her contacts from the business card he’d given her. She was contemplating pressing the Call button when Jonathan stumbled into the room, wet and muddy.
‘What the hell happened to you?’ exclaimed Rebecca.
‘I fell into the bloody creek!’ said Jonathan. ‘I was crossing a shallow ford when I slipped and fell. I had to drag myself up the muddy embankment. I stink.’
‘Yes, I’ve noticed,’ replied Rebecca. ‘So you did this yourself? No one pushed you?’
‘Of course no one pushed me. Why would anyone push me into the creek?’
Rebecca quickly moved on. ‘Well, we can’t go to lunch with you looking and smelling like you do. I guess we will just have to go home,’ she said with exaggerated frustration, throwing her arms into the air.
‘No, not at all,’ said Jonathan. ‘I always keep spare golf clothes in the boot of my car, plus various other bits and pieces like jumpers and hats. I’ll grab something suitable, wash up, and change in the men’s loo.’
Deciding to do the wine tasting alone while Jonathan changed, Rebecca sidled up to the counter. She listened with interest to the detail the sommelier imparted about each wine she sampled. Smelling the wine, swirling it in her mouth, and then spitting each mouthful into a spittoon, Rebecca actually felt like she knew what she was doing. She wrote copious notes and took a few snaps of the wines she was sampling with her iPad camera, paying attention to take close-up shots of the labels and the descriptions on the back. All this detail would help her when she wrote her impressions of the wines. She would get Jo Sharpiro, her photographer, to take the proper photos once she decided what she would feature.
When Rebecca finished the tasting, she waited for Jonathan in the restaurant. A special table at the front of the enclosed verandah was reserved for them. Rebecca was always grateful that one of the perks of the job was great seating in restaurants. She was one of the few ’Tiser journalists to have a company credit card, for use when reviewing meals. But as today wasn’t strictly reviewing the current menu, and because Jonathan was her guest, Rebecca had already decided to pay using her private card. She felt virtuous. Besides which, she knew Reg would never approve the bill.
The table was simply set with white linen napkins, plain water glasses, wine glasses, white side plates, and quality cutlery. Rebecca ordered a large bottle of sparking mineral water and started to peruse the food menu, but a shadow caught her eye. She looked up to see Jonathan walking toward her in one of the more bizarre outfits she had seen him wear. And that was saying something.
He wore grey woollen diamond-patterned plus fours that Rebecca was certain had come from his deceased father’s closet—or perhaps it was his grandfather’s closet. On his feet, Jonathan wore orange plastic Crocs with short black socks. On top, he wore a whitish shirt that looked like it had been washed with the darks. Over the shirt, he wore his old and out-of-shape school cricket jumper, darned in a couple of places with wool that didn’t strictly match. He had been wearing the same jumper last Frid
ay under his blazer, the day of Leong’s death.
Rebecca slowly shook her head. ‘What do you look like?’ she said as he seated himself opposite her.
‘What? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?’ he said with feigned indignation. ‘It’s better than sitting here wet, muddy, and stinky.’
‘Marginally,’ said Rebecca. ‘You’re lucky that d’Arry’s Verandah is too sophisticated to go in for silly rules such as a dress code.’ Secretly though, Rebecca quite enjoyed Jonathan’s eccentricities. Chiding Jonathan was one of the ways she communicated with him, and he loved it. It was a game to them both.
Rebecca and Jonathan sat in silence for a few minutes while they made their food decisions. Rebecca always held off ordering the wine until the food was decided—not that she always stuck with the rule of whites with white meat or seafood and reds with red meat. It was more complicated than that.
‘So, what do you fancy?’
‘Well, I haven’t eaten a lot in the last few days, and it all sounds wonderful. Are you going to have an entrée and a main?’ He spoke hesitantly, and Rebecca suspected he felt guilty that he was beginning to enjoy himself.
‘Why not?’ said Rebecca. ‘And if there is room, I might even try a dessert.’
‘Great,’ said Jonathan. ‘In that case, for entrée, I’ll have’—he read from the menu—’the lobster medallion and the ravioli stuffed with blue-swimmer crab and prawn. For main course, I’ll go for the slow-roast pork belly with green beans, water chestnuts, and Asian olive paste. What about you?’
‘Well, for entrée, I think I will have the smoked trout with kipfler potato salsa, enoki mushrooms, silken tofu, and ginger. For the main, I’ll have the crispy-skin chicken.’ She added, ‘Why don’t we also get a salad? How about baby spinach with crushed green olive, white anchovy salad with lemon dressing?’
The Popeye Murder Page 8