by Tracey Drew
“He’ll miss you when you get your life back on track and find a real job,” she added as I followed her into the dining room.
Aaaaand back to reality with a crash.
Sean was already seated at the table, and on overhearing Mum’s last comment, he rolled his eyes at me in solidarity. I took my place next to him while Dad set down the serving platter of roast lamb with a flourish.
Dinner passed in a blur of mint sauce, crispy roasted potatoes, and Tales from a Real Estate Agent, with Mum doing most of the talking. As usual. However, I was grateful for hers and Sean’s constant chatter because it meant I got to eat without interruption. Plus, I could replay my conversations with Dylan and his parents over and over, searching for new clues.
I still hadn’t come up with any startling revelations when Mum mentioned something about Dad having a toothache and being typically stubborn about getting it checked out.
“Speaking of the dentist,” I said, interrupting Mum’s pestering offer to book him an appointment, “did you know Jennifer Werth has a twin sister?”
My parents stopped mid-bicker, and Mum stared at me with an exasperated expression. “This isn’t exactly an earth-shattering revelation, sweetie. I sold a house to Mrs. Foster, who used to be the family’s neighbor. Jennifer doesn’t talk about her sister, though. Julia, I think her name was.”
“Black sheep of the family, eh? That why doesn’t she talk about her?” Dad asked the question before I could.
Dad was a second-generation Cape Discovery local, but unlike my mum, he didn’t feel the need to know everything about everybody.
‘This doesn’t concern you, so mind your own beeswax,’ was one of his favorite pieces of advice. That and, ‘Not my circus, not my monkeys,’ whenever Mum grilled him for any town gossip he’d heard while on his deliveries.
Mum’s mouth puckered into a grimace. “When I sold the house, I told you about Jennifer and her twin. Weren’t you listening?”
Dad winked at me. “Course I was. Just refresh my memory.” He completely tuned out when Mum got going on one of her gossip sagas.
After a long-suffering sigh, Mum spoke. “It’s not really dinner table conversation, but”—she leaned forward in a dramatic pause—“according to Mrs. Foster, Jennifer and Julia were like chalk and cheese. Jennifer was the girl who studied hard and got good grades, whereas her sister struggled to keep up. Mrs. Foster thought maybe she had a touch of dyslexia. Regardless, things went bad for the twins when they moved to Auckland, so Jennifer could attend university. While her twin studied, Julia decided to have a gap year and got herself a job in retail. She also decided she liked being eighteen and old enough to paint the town red, with or without her sister. Mrs. Foster said the girls’ parents didn’t seem too concerned about reports of wild behavior from the family member they were boarding with. That was until one Friday night when Julia went into the city alone with friends.”
Mum closed her eyes for a moment, and in her face, I saw sadness and empathy, not merely someone repeating a juicy nugget of gossip. “She didn’t come home that night. The next morning, police arrived to inform the girls’ parents that Julia’s body had been found at the base of a multistory parking garage. She’d either fallen or jumped, and a pair of eyewitnesses who’d seen her earlier claimed she’d been as high as a kite.”
“How awful,” I said. “That poor family.”
With a nod, Mum folded her napkin into a neat square and set it on top of her plate. “I think Jennifer took it the hardest. Not only had she lost her twin, and in such horrible circumstances, but she also blamed herself for not being with her sister that night to stop her from doing something stupid.”
No wonder Jennifer didn’t talk about her.
“That sucks.” Sean rocked his chair back onto two legs. “But how about we talk about something less depressing, like, is there any dessert?”
“Not for me,” I said, and using Harry and the upcoming class as an excuse, I made my escape.
Ten minutes later, I let myself in through the back door of Unraveled and came face-to-face with Kit and Pearl, who eyeballed me with accusing stares. From above came loud TV voices, and I grinned when I recognized the host’s voice from MasterChef. Harry was definitely getting himself in the mood for the meeting. Also drifting down the stairs was the delicious smell of cake.
Time check—I still had an hour before the group was due to arrive. I’d promised Harry I’d be back for the start of the meeting and, having organized everything other than the cake he’d baked, I could still duck out for one last errand without causing him to fret.
As I scratched Kit under his chin, and he chirped with pleasure, Pearl stretched and sauntered over to sit beside her empty food dish. Her downstairs food dish. That’s right, they had bowls upstairs and downstairs. Spoiled, much?
“Subtle kitty, aren’t you?” I whispered. “But I’ve already fed you, and you’ll get treats from Isabel later… Oh, wait, no you won’t. Sorry.”
I hadn’t spoken to Isabel in person, though I’d left a ‘hope you feel better soon’ message on her voicemail. But I doubted we’d see her at tonight’s class. Thinking of Isabel led me to tussle again with the suspicion she was Lucas’s killer, even though a few things didn’t add up.
Like the note threatening Kit and Pearl: cats she clearly doted on. Not to mention the timing of it being left in my yard. And the leprechaun pin. It didn’t strike me as Isabel’s style, not when the woman had a yard full of cat-themed knickknacks.
And then there was the revelation about Jennifer Werth’s twin sister, who’d died tragically when they were teenagers…in what sounded like a drug-related incident.
Coincidence?
That was the purpose of my quick errand. If given fifteen minutes alone with the woman and a cup of tea, I was confident my counseling background could be used to coax out more detail. Finding Jennifer’s home address was easy. And with a quick snatch-and-grab of a few balls of yarn from Unraveled shelves and some cellophane and ribbon, I’d created the perfect excuse to drop in on her unannounced.
Brian and Jennifer lived on one of the prettiest roads in Cape Discovery. It was lined with native pohutukawa trees, a few still retaining their crimson quill-like blossoms despite being known as New Zealand’s Christmas tree because of the vibrant blooms that peaked in late December every year. Set back from the road, the Werths’ two-story house was surrounded by a neatly trimmed privacy hedge and had a circular driveway that wouldn’t have looked out of place at a four-star boutique hotel’s entrance. There were no cars in the driveway, but with an attached three-door garage, they might have been parked up for the night.
I pressed the doorbell and listened to its chime echo inside, clutching the packaged yarn in front of me like a shield. A blurred Orc-sized shadow appeared behind the frosted glass door and morphed into the grim-faced dentist when he flung it open.
However, his grim expression evaporated as he locked eyes with me, replaced by a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Hello. Tessa, isn’t it?” he said. “What brings you here? Hopefully, not an after-hours dental emergency, heh-heh.”
Holding up the yarn, I returned his smile, hoping it appeared friendly. “We had a door prize at the beginners knitting class Jennifer attended last week, and she won!” Had I sounded too bright, too excitably enthusiastic? Maybe a tad hysterical? I cleared my throat and aimed to lower my voice at least half an octave. “Is your wife around?”
I tried to peer past his bulk into the house’s interior, but he partially closed the door. “Sorry, she’s got a bit of a headache, so she’s resting.”
“Oh.”
He extended a hand through the now narrow gap between door and doorframe. “I can give this to her later when she wakes up.”
But I kept my fingers wrapped tightly around the package. “I’d really like to speak to her. I wanted to apologize for all the talk about drugs and drug dealing during the class.”
Brian stared at me, muscles bunching
in his jaw as if he were grinding his molars together. That couldn’t be good for his teeth.
Spurred by an adrenaline rush as I imagined him with a dentist’s drill in his hand, my tongue continued to waggle. “Honestly, I had no idea about her sister, and I feel terrible that our discussion might’ve brought up some painful memories. To lose a sibling that way and then the shocking discovery of a drug dealer in town; I thought she might like to talk…”
As I paused to whoop in more oxygen, instead of shutting the door in my face, he opened it wide. “Come in, then. I’ll go see if Jennifer’s awake.”
The foyer of the Werths’ house was every bit as impressive as the paved entranceway. However, I didn’t have long to admire the curved staircase leading upstairs, as Brian ushered me into the living room. Two huge leather couches and a massive wall-mounted television dominated the room, a space large enough to hold half of her grandparents’ apartment.
Perched on the edge of a couch, I tipped my head, trying to hear what was going on upstairs. Brian’s deep voice was a distant rumble, and after a minute, the sound of running water drifted down the stairs. Heavy footfalls followed, and I glanced around to see him with his open wide; this won’t hurt a bit professional face affixed firmly in place.
“Sorry about that,” he said smoothly before lowering his voice in a faux confidential manner. “Jen gets a bit cranky if she’s woken up. But she’s happy to talk to you; she’s just hopping in the shower first.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m a bit cranky too if my nap’s interrupted.”
He angled himself back toward the doorway. “I’d better follow orders and make you both a hot drink. Tea okay?”
“Fine, thanks. Milk and two sugars please.”
Brian bustled away, and through the doorway came the clink of china and the rumble of an electric kettle heating. I leaned back into the cushions—surprisingly plush and comfortable, they gave me a moment of couch envy—and attempted to organize my galloping thoughts. It was much like herding kittens.
One errant thought kept jumping above the crowd and waving its arms in a frantic bid for attention: What if Dylan’s comment about his exam results and ‘ending up like Lucas’ didn’t mean what I’d assumed it meant. That he’d be ‘dead’ if he didn’t do well in his exams.
What if he’d meant if he didn’t do well, he might end up like Lucas, selling drugs to schoolkids?
And how would the Werths feel about their kid becoming a drug dealer? Especially Brian, who obviously had some big ambitions for his stepson. But before I could fling myself headlong down that side street of inquiry, Brian reappeared with two cups and saucers.
“There we go,” he said, handing one to me. After setting the other down on the smoked-glass coffee table, he lowered himself onto the couch opposite me and crossed his legs.
The fabric of his trousers made a whispery sound, inexplicably sending a shudder of distaste rippling over my scalp. I sipped at the tea, which was strong and sweet, just the way I liked it. Although I couldn’t imagine ever being relaxed in this man’s presence—he’d scraped tartar off my teeth, so, eww—he did make a decent cuppa.
“So, what’s with this sleuthing hobby Jen tells me you’ve taken up recently?” Brian draped his arms over the back of the couch. “Were you close to the deceased, or are you just trying to get one up on that arrogant city detective?”
Forget his brewing skills, the man was as tactful as a septic tank truck spewing its sloppy cargo into a swimming pool. “Detective Mana is just doing his job.”
“If he were doing his job, he would’ve arrested Isabel Burton by now.”
“Do you really think she did it?” I swallowed more tea. If I were completely honest, it could’ve done with being hotter, but at least it was drinkable. My mouth felt weirdly dry, so I took another gulp.
He lifted a shoulder. “Crime of passion, I reckon. Wouldn’t surprise me if she was in on the drug dealing too. What better setup than working with all those teenagers who want to experiment?”
Wow, a huge jump in logic from crime of passion to partners in crime. However, I was more interested in his relationship with Lucas Kerr than Isabel’s. He had physically threatened Lucas for flirting with his wife.
But was flirtation the actual reason Brian had slammed him up against the pub wall?
I took another slurp of tea, laser-focusing on Oliver’s exact words: ‘He got all up in his face and told him to stay away from his family.’
Family, not wife. Stay away from his family, and that could mean…Dylan.
Suddenly, I found myself craving the relative safety of Jennifer Werth’s presence. I shot a glance toward the door. “She’s having a long shower. Do you think she’s okay?”
“I’ll run upstairs and check.”
“Good idea,” I chirped. “I’ll keep enjoying this lovely cup of tea.” I toasted him with the cup as he stood and hurried from the room.
As soon as Brian was out of sight, I set down my tea and stood. My knees felt wobbly, but they steadied as I crossed to a montage of family portraits on the wall.
There was Dylan, posed in an Easter basket as a baby. Super cute. Dylan as a proud ring-bearer, standing beside his mother in her sleek white wedding gown and his new stepfather, who was beaming like the cat that got the canary. A photo of a younger Jennifer and Brian in front of the Sydney Opera House, each with a hand resting on a gap-toothed Dylan’s shoulder. A posed portrait of Jennifer in a graduation cap and gown. And above that, another birthday photo of Jennifer and her sister. In this one, they were teenagers.
My sight blurred as I studied the photo, so I moved closer to see the details. Bent over another bright-green birthday cake, the twins were blowing out two candles in the shape of the numerals one and seven. Their identical clover-print T-shirts coordinated with the green banner in the background. A banner proclaiming, ‘Happy Saint Patrick’s Day,’ with a hand-written sign tacked to the bottom that said, ‘And Happy B-Day Jennifer & Julia!’
The clincher though—the thing that made my heart gallop, my knees resume wobbling, and my palms grow clammy—was what each girl wore pinned to her shirt collar.
A leprechaun pin.
An identical twin to the one currently residing in my pocket.
But before I could compare it, hairs rose in a prickle down the back of my neck, nerve-endings picking up on what my ears hadn’t yet registered.
Footsteps. Headed my way.
I tried to turn, but it was as if I’d suddenly found myself hip-deep in molasses. Even if I could turn, my brain had floated out of my skull, and I suspected it was headed for the room’s double-height ceiling. And even if I could turn, I didn’t need to.
Brian’s unwashed dentist-office-and-expensive-cologne smell wafted from behind me—a split second before a meaty hand clamped over my mouth.
And then everything went muzzy…wuzzy…fuzzy…
Fourteen
When the darkness receded and my eyelids fluttered open, three pairs of eyes stared back at me. Two pairs belonged to life-sized porcelain Persian cats. And the other to a bug-eyed Isabel Burton, the lower portion of her face pulled into a rictus grin by the silk scarf clenched between her teeth.
My head felt stuffed with mohair yarn: fuzzy and tangled with partially formed thoughts that seemed to lead nowhere.
What had I done to deserve the hairy eyeball from the cat statues?
Why had Isabel purchased a scarf in such a bright shade of orange that it made my eyes and ears hurt?
These inane questions ping-ponged around my brain. Followed by some slightly more rational memories.
I remembered someone helping me stagger to a car.
I remembered the motion of being driven.
And I remembered being half-guided, half-carried into an unfamiliar house.
With one sense too many operating at the same time, I reclosed my eyes, freeing me up to make a mental head-to-toe checklist.
Head? Muzzy and achy-come-hangover-y, but
intact.
Neck and shoulders? Stiff, as if I’d slept funny.
Back and butt? Surprisingly comfortable, situated in what appeared to be a squishy armchair.
Legs and feet? Hunky-dory-Rory.
Hands? Still attached to my arms, ha ha… Wait a darn minute! My hands were bound together in front of my body.
My eyes flew open, and I dropped my chin. Wrapped and knotted around my wrists was what looked like a ball of super-chunky, one hundred percent wool in the shade of Violet Skies. I knew this because I’d talked Isabel into buying this particular yarn a few weeks ago. Irony, you are the Queen of all Mean Girls.
Something moved on my left side, and I rolled my head toward it. A hulking Brian Werth lowered himself onto the sofa opposite Isabel.
“She’s awake,” he called out.
For a moment, my addled brain thought he’d announced this to the faux Persians on the coffee table. Because if the human was awake, it surely meant kibble would rattle into their food dishes like manna from Heaven.
“What? She should still be out for hours.” A female voice came from behind me, strident and filled with impatient irritation.
Through squinty eyes, I watched as Brian’s face puckered into a scowl. “Hey. Spiking someone’s drink is not an exact science, honey. It’s not my fault she didn’t drink it all.”
Honey? That could only mean…
Jennifer Werth walked around the armchair to stand in front of me, fists planted on hips. I blinked up at her then tilted my head to see around her to where Isabel sat.
Unlike mine, Isabel’s wrists were more securely fastened with plastic cable ties. Another cable tie was clasped around one ankle, a second one looped through it and secured to the Velcro straps of the moon boot worn over her injured ankle. There wasn’t much chance of Isabel making a run for it, but whoever tied her up—and by whoever, I meant the woman glowering down at me—they’d come prepared for resistance.