by Evans, Ilsa
All of which left one burning question: why? Actually it left several other questions also, but it seemed better to concentrate on one at a time.
By the morning my mind was made up, and even sand-in-the-eye weariness was not enough to dissuade me. At the very least, investigating the case would be a distraction, and I needed a distraction. Besides, as a middle-aged woman, it seemed that I possessed a highly desirable trait for sleuthing: invisibility. Might as well make use of it.
I slept in until past eight, which was unusual, and by the time I made it to the kitchen everybody had already left. There was a note on the bench – Gone to school. Love, Quinn – and fresh coffee wafting from a percolator that hadn’t been there when I went to bed. I poured myself a mug and was pleased to discover that it tasted as good as it smelt.
The thing was that whichever way the situation was examined, my mother seemed to be involved. Even if the unidentified sedan owner was the culprit, there must have been a reason that he dragged the body into her garage and set it alight. Perhaps he had decided to kill two birds with one stone. So to speak. Regardless, my mother’s involvement gave me a legitimate reason for asking questions. And those questions, plus answers, might give me an angle that – I let the half-formed idea peep out for just a second – could be used for a book. Perhaps fate had given me a second chance at writing a murder mystery. Perhaps, despite all recent evidence to the contrary, fate was on my side.
It was a beautiful morning, with an airy balminess that was more spring than summer. I drove with the windows down, singing along to Jimmy Barnes and just reaching the climax of ‘Working Class Man’ as I turned into Small Dairy Lane and parked by the kerb. The house was deserted now, no other cars, no investigators; just crime tape and blue canvas fluttering in the breeze. I ducked beneath the tape and walked towards the remains of the garage. The damage to the house itself was boarded over, but the garage had been so badly burnt that there was little recognisable there. Except the blackened shell of my mother’s Honda.
I pushed at some coal with my foot and stared at the black smear across my sandshoe, then made my way gingerly through the debris. In the backyard I could see the section of blackened fence that Rita Hurley had been talking about, but all else looked untouched. The borders still bloomed, the grass glistened, and the trees spread leafy shade with a welcoming generosity that was a little ironic, given their owner. I crossed to the Craig side fence and was thrilled to see, immediately, that a section of garden had been all but destroyed. There was also some damage to the lawn nearby, as if something had been dragged for a short distance, perhaps about a metre. Otherwise, the lawn remained pristine, apart from scattering of possum poo, all the way up to the garage remains.
From here I could see the top half of the Craigs’ house and I guessed that if someone had been sitting on the decking over there, I would have been able to see the upper half of them too. I swivelled towards the back fence where, because Lincoln Court was set on a slight rise, Leon Chaucer’s entire veranda was visible, with three-quarters enclosed behind rippled green perspex. Next door was Berry Pembroke’s house, but only a large corner window faced my mother’s yard, lined with white net.
‘Nell! Thank goodness it’s you!’
I turned a little more and there was Rita, peering over the top of her fence. The burnt section spread from below her chin, like an amorphous charcoal body. ‘Yes, just me. I thought I’d come check things out.’
‘Though I’m not sure if you should be back there. The tape is still up.’
‘If they were that fussed, they would have left a guard or something.’ I crossed the yard towards her. ‘Listen, Rita, do you have any theories? About what happened?’
She blinked. ‘Um, no. That is … no.’
But I knew, just by the way her eyes slid from mine for a second, that she did indeed have a theory, and my mother had a starring role. I waited, hoping that she would feel compelled to fill the silence.
‘You look tired, Nell. Not sleeping well?’ She paused as I shrugged, and then continued in a rush. ‘So, is your mother going to rebuild?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Oh, I just thought she might take the opportunity to, well, downsize. Maybe even one of those nice villages, like the one they’re building out near the lake.’
‘You mean the retirement village?’
‘Well, yes. Not that I’m suggesting she retire,’ added Rita rapidly. ‘Just that this might all be sort of serendipitous. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Oh, exactly. And it was terribly sporting of that Craig bloke to be part of the serendipity. You don’t often find that sort of generosity in a neighbour.’
Rita frowned. ‘Um, that’s not quite –’
‘I know.’ I took pity on her, despite her clumsy attempt to turn the situation to her advantage. Which was probably understandable in itself.
‘The police have been around, asking questions,’ offered Rita. ‘Did we hear anything, that sort of thing. I told them we just turned the telly up when the arguing started, tried to mind our own business.’ She hesitated. ‘They took Jim to the station to make a statement.’
‘I see. Ah, did they mention the car? A dark-coloured sedan?’
‘Yes, they did, but we weren’t any help.’
‘Naturally. And I don’t suppose you know how Beth Craig is? How she’s coping?’
‘Oh, I dropped in yesterday.’ Rita looked pleased to report that she’d done something proactive. ‘Took her a casserole. She’s struggling, poor thing.’
‘I’m heading over there now. Offer my condolences and all that.’
‘Well, pass on my best wishes again. And to your mother as well.’
‘No problem. Did you want me to pass on your suggestion? About the retirement village?’
Rita paled. ‘No! I mean no, that’s not a good idea. It’ll sound all wrong. It was just a thought, a silly thought. You know me, not thinking …’ She petered off.
‘No problem,’ I repeated, feeling guilty. ‘I won’t say anything. But I’d better go, or I’ll run out of time. Bye, Rita.’
‘Bye, Nell, love. Do say hello to your mother from me. And from Jim.’
I left Rita at the fence and made my way back through the remains of the garage and into the front yard. From Lincoln Court came the sound of a motor mower, the roar throbbing along the soft breeze. It only served to accentuate the silence of the house next door, where every blind was at least half-drawn. I walked up the driveway, my feet crunching on gravel. Past a cluster of tree ferns that sprouted from pine-chipped garden beds, trailing fronds across the lawn. Up to an old-fashioned screen door that was more screen than frame, and behind which a mission-brown front door was firmly shut.
I rang the doorbell and listened to it echo deep within the house. It was still echoing as the door was flung open and I dropped my gaze to the little girl who stood there, about six years of age, wavy blonde hair pulled back into pigtails. ‘Hello there. Is your mum home?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah, so could you get her?’
‘Yes.’
I thought that if I stood there, expectantly, the child might follow through, but long moments passed with us simply staring at each other. It’s difficult to know who would have given in first but fortunately her mother appeared behind her, clearly annoyed that the front door had already been answered.
‘Jessica! I’ve told you and told you. What have I told you?’
‘Not to open the door?’
‘I am very cross with you.’
Jessica nodded, apparently unperturbed. She pointed to my head. ‘You’ve got funny hair.’
‘Yes, I do,’ I said agreeably, and then turned my attention back to her mother. ‘Hello, I’m Nell, Lillian Forrest’s daughter. From next door.’
Beth Craig was visibly relieved. ‘Oh, good. I thought you might be that woman from the paper again. Oh, and I should ask how your mother is?’
‘She’s fine, just fine. But y
ou – I’m so sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you.’ Beth pushed the screen door open and I realised her loss was, in fact, written all over her face. Her pale hair appeared unwashed, pulled back into a low ponytail, and her eyes were swollen, cradled by loose, puffy bags. Nevertheless it was also clear that she was a very good-looking woman, with porcelain skin and fine facial bones.
‘I just thought I’d pass on my condolences, and if you need anything, you know …’
‘Yes. Thank you. So kind.’
Silence stretched, and I knew she was being polite, waiting for me to leave. ‘Ah, I wonder if I could ask you something? Not to be nosy or anything, but more because, well, my mother is sort of involved and …’
‘I understand.’ Beth’s face tightened. ‘What did you want to ask?’
‘The police mentioned a car, a dark-coloured sedan. I was just wondering if …’
‘Oh, that. No, I don’t know who it was.’ She shook her head, tendrils of fine hair fluttering. ‘No idea. Nothing to do with us.’
‘I see. Most likely coincidence then. Perhaps a visitor for someone else in the street.’
‘I reckon. All I know is no-one was visiting … us.’
I watched her face tighten once more, and tried desperately to think of something to prolong the conversation. Something empathic, yet insightful. ‘Shit, hey?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must be so, um …’
‘Yes.’ She hesitated, running her fingers through one of her daughter’s pigtails. ‘He wasn’t like they’re saying, you know. Not always. He loved me, and the girls.’
I nodded, glanced down at Jessica. She stared steadily back.
‘It was his job. So much pressure. And me …’ She laughed, a harsh sound. ‘Sometimes I don’t know when to shut up. Nag, nag, nag. That’s me.’
I nodded again, because I didn’t know how to respond. I had a flash of insight that soon Beth would begin rewriting history in earnest, and no doubt within a year she would be insisting that her marriage had been perfect, and her husband a gentle soul.
‘Could you please say thank you to your mother for me?’
My eyes widened. ‘What for?’
‘Oh, she’s been so good to me. So helpful.’
I stared at her guileless expression and knew, instantly, that she hadn’t been involved. Whatever had eventuated that evening, how her husband’s body ended up in my mother’s garage, Beth Craig knew no more than she claimed. I put a hand on her arm. ‘I’ll tell her.’
She gazed at my hand, then back at me. ‘I just can’t work out who … well, could do something like …’
‘My dad’s dead,’ said Jessica, with perfect timing. ‘A bad man stabbed him seventeen hundred times.’
‘Stabbed him?’ I blinked at her, then Beth. ‘So you’ve heard how he died?’
‘Oh my god! You’ve heard?’
I frowned. ‘Well, only from you. Just then.’
‘But I don’t know anything! I thought you did.’
‘She just said –’ I took my hand away to point at Jessica, who was watching us both with interest ‘– that a bad man stabbed him!’
‘In the shower,’ added Jessica.
‘Oh my god, don’t listen to her! She just got that from Psycho, is all. You know, that old film with the nyeh, nyeh.’ Beth executed the classic shower stabbing motion. ‘We watched it last night, to try and take our minds off everything.’
‘You let her watch Psycho? To take her mind off things?’
‘It was boring,’ said Jessica. ‘I liked Roger Rabbit better. There was a lady with my name. She was hot.’
Beth was looking at me narrowly. ‘Are you criticising my parenting?’
‘Psycho! When her father’s just been –’
‘Fuck off,’ said Beth, taking a step backwards and pushing Jessica behind her. She let go of the screen, which bounced closed, and then gave me one last glare before she slammed the front door. Leaving me with just mission-brown through mesh.
‘Well done,’ I said to the door. ‘Top journalistic skills.’
I could hear Beth’s voice, interspersed with her daughter’s higher tones, fading into the depths of the house. The motor mower took over, with a throaty rumble. I took a deep breath as I walked down the driveway towards the car. It was just as well I never hankered after a career as a private investigator; a Pink Panther-type ineptitude wasn’t quite as appealing without the French accent.
I detoured past my mother’s letterbox and removed a handful of mail, which I threw on the passenger seat. Then I surveyed the street thoughtfully. The Roddom house was locked up tight, with garage door down and curtains drawn, and was only missing a sign announcing We’re on holidays and nobody is home. Next door the Tapscotts’ carport was sans cars so I guessed both were at work, with the budding author about a month or so from maternity leave. I turned to peer down the street towards Mrs Fletcher’s old weatherboard, and noted that it too appeared deserted. It seemed that this street was perfect for crime, with the residents all either absent or watching movies about psychopathic killers and/or animated interspecies marriage.
‘Hoy, Nell!’
Except for Edward Given, of course. I watched him lumber down his driveway and then across the road, his pants belted above the curve of his rounded belly. I raised a hand in greeting.
‘Nell.’ He put one hand on my car as he caught his breath.
‘Correct. And you’re Edward.’
‘Actually …’ He took another few breaths. ‘I prefer Ned, thanks.’
‘Ned?’
‘Yep. It’s more – well, friendly. And I bet I know what you’re thinking now. What a shame we never became an item. Ned and Nell.’
‘It’s like you read my mind.’
‘Funny you say that. My mother always used to say I had a bit of psychic in me.’
I had a sudden image of a psychic-centred menu; roast leg of psychic with cranberry sauce, stuffed psychic on a bed of mash, psychic balls with spaghetti. I grinned.
‘Ah well, too late now.’
‘Yes, because I’m in my dotage.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean it that way!’ He took a step back, clearly flustered. ‘Just didn’t want to give you the wrong idea. That I – we …’
I stared at him, my grin remaining for a few moments, rictus-like, and then slipping away as his reaction sunk in. Was that an actual recoil? I could feel my throat tightening, ridiculously, and knew I had to say something, soon, before he got the impression I was devastated. Which was not far off.
‘Nell?’ He blinked. ‘Are you all right? I never –’
‘Fine.’ The word came out in shards. I coughed, started again. ‘Fine. It’s just being here, in the street. Brings it all home, you know? About the murder. By the way, I got your message yesterday, about the ugly rumours. Thanks for letting me know.’
He smiled, clearly grateful for the turn in conversation. ‘Well, it’s the least I can do. Being such old friends. And I don’t believe for a moment that your mother would have done something like that to poor Dustin Craig.’ He shook his head. ‘She’s just not strong enough.’
‘Ah, yes. Of course.’
‘Though I have to say that I am a little cross with you, Nell.’ He smiled and nodded, his double chin compressing accordion-like against his neck. ‘You told me that the committee meeting was cancelled on Sunday afternoon. Which I passed on to several members, only to find that the information was incorrect. Tsk, tsk.’
‘Did I?’ I frowned, as if trying to recall the incident. ‘If that’s the case I do apologise, Ed – Ned. It was such a dreadful day I can barely recall functioning.’
‘Apology accepted. I’d ask you in for coffee but I’m about to head into town, have to catch up with Sam Emerson. Planning our Christmas function, you know. Busy times.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Speaking of catching up, I saw you’ve been to visit the merry widow.’ Edward inclined his head towards Be
th’s house. ‘At least she spoke to you. Wouldn’t even open the door to me yesterday.’
‘Perhaps she was too upset.’
‘Yeah.’ Edward gave a little snort. ‘She opened the door quickly enough for the police.’
‘Well, she’s probably eager for news. Answers.’
He smiled, and then shook his head. ‘Oh, Nell, Nell, Nell. I suspect that she already has all the answers. It’s the questions that she’s dodging.’
‘Which would explain why she opened the door so quickly to the police?’
‘Now you get the picture. To divert suspicion, of course.’
‘Okay.’ I closed my eyes briefly and decided that if I had to have this conversation, I might as well make the most of it. ‘Edward – I mean Ned, do you know anything about this dark sedan the police are looking for?’
‘Know anything? Why I was the one who reported it!’ He grinned. ‘Saw it about quarter past eleven, just as I was going to bed. Parked right over there.’ He pointed down the street towards the Fletcher house. Then he faced me again, with a peculiar smile. ‘Ask Jim Hurley if you don’t believe me. No doubt he would’ve seen it as he was leaving your mother’s house that night.’
‘Jim Hurley? What?’
‘Yep. Oh, I’m sure there’s nothing to it if that’s what you’re worried about. After all, he drops in all the time. He was probably just borrowing sugar. Or maybe Rita had gone to bed and he was feeling a little … lonely.’
I blinked, trying to keep my face noncommittal. The truth was that even though it was difficult to imagine my mother and Jim having clandestine late-night trysts, it didn’t disturb me in a moral sense; it was more that I felt blindsided. Not to mention the implications of the timing, given nefarious doings were afoot. ‘Then this must have been after the police came? About the altercation between my mother and Dustin Craig?’