by Vicki Tyley
“It was easy.” More laughter followed.
“Yeah, I know. I’m a real sucker for a sob story. You’d have thought I’d have learnt by now.”
Brenda continued, making no effort to conceal her mirth. “It wasn’t a sob story. I don’t want to be single all my life, and I really do need my best friend for moral support.”
“Yeah, right. I’ll believe you but thousands wouldn’t.” Megan pressed her lips together in a flimsy attempt to stop herself laughing.
As she emerged from the cubicle, Brenda looked at her with an overacted innocence, her eyes wide.
Megan shook her head and laughed. “Well, at least life is never boring with you around.” She rinsed the soap from her hands under the tap, and flicked the excess water off before turning to Brenda. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you hook me up with any of those desperadoes.”
“They’re not all desperadoes,” Brenda said, drawing out the word “all.”
Megan fished around in her handbag, hunting for the lipstick she’d tossed in there earlier in the night. “I assume you’re referring to Lawson.” She continued searching for the elusive lipstick, expecting to hear the usual smart-alec retort.
When Brenda didn’t respond, she looked up. Brenda grinned at her and nodded.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Megan retorted. “Sure, he’s good looking, but I don’t think he’s really my type. He’s too quiet.”
Brenda tilted her head and cocked an eyebrow, but remained silent.
Megan snapped her fingers and pointed at Brenda. “Oh, now I get it. You fancy young Lawson.”
Still grinning, Brenda raised her eyebrows.
“But, Brenda, he’s so timid. It would be like pairing up a lion and a rabbit. And he’s no lion.”
Brenda threw her head back and roared with laughter. “Don’t you know it’s the quiet ones you have to watch?”
“Maybe so. Can I also remind you that you’re not the only one lusting after the delectable Lawson.”
“Ha! Pouty-lipped Linda is so not his type.”
Lipstick found, Megan refreshed her lip color. “If you say so. What about Pauline Meyer?” She bared her teeth at the mirror, checking there was no Perfect Plum adorning them.
“Does she think she’s his mother or something?”
“Or something, I reckon.”
They exchanged looks, pulling exaggerated faces of incredulity, before shoving the door open and making their way back out into the dining area. As they crossed the open space in the middle of the floor, Mata Hari, aka Linda, sailed past them with her shoulders back and her breasts thrust forward.
Brenda’s stride lengthened, leaving Megan trying to keep up on heels that threatened to pitch her face first onto the floor. Megan soon saw the reason for her friend’s haste. With Linda on her way to the toilets and Pauline nowhere to be seen, Lawson was a sitting duck, defenseless to predatory females.
Lawson’s surface vulnerability somehow brought out the protective instinct in Megan. She felt like mothering him. Almost. However, she was quite sure that it wasn’t this same instinct driving Brenda in an unswerving course towards Pauline’s vacated seat.
By the time Megan reached her seat, Brenda was well and truly ensconced at the head of the table. With her forearms resting on the tabletop, she perched on her seat edge and leaned in towards Lawson as if she had a secret to share with him.
Megan dropped into her chair and reached for her wineglass. Too busy giving the woman on his right the same spiel he’d given Megan, Wayne hadn’t noticed her return.
Whilst not able to hear the conversation further up the table, she observed Lawson visibly relaxing. His face no longer seemed as tense and his eyes had stopped darting all over the place. He even managed a small smile. Once again Brenda had woven her magic.
The magic was short-lived. As the first courses arrived, Linda flounced back to her chair on Lawson’s left, trailing her hand across his shoulders as she did so. Linda threw a dismissive look at Brenda, and turned her attention to Lawson. He in turn gave her what appeared to be a sly wink. Megan couldn’t believe it. Her initial maternal instincts evaporated in a flash.
From where she sat, Brenda wouldn’t have seen the wink. Besides, she was too busy glaring at Linda to have noticed. Megan herself was starting to doubt what she’d seen, or at least thought she had seen. Were her eyes playing tricks on her? It didn’t make any sense.
The music stopped and a few seconds later Pauline Meyer’s artificially posh voice filtered through the sound system. Megan turned in her seat, watched and listened as Pauline, microphone in hand, welcomed everyone to the dinner. It was the first opportunity Megan had really had to study the statuesque blonde without appearing to be rude. Megan wasn’t good at estimating ages – especially women’s – but she guessed Pauline had to be nudging her mid forties, if not her early fifties. Even though the other woman’s complexion appeared smooth and flawless, Megan wondered how much of it could be attributed to cosmetic intervention. Earlier she’d noticed the backs of Pauline’s hands, the slight crinkling of the skin telling a different story to that of her face.
Her figure, on the other hand, would be the envy of any woman half her age. Megan herself certainly envied the lean, verging on sinewy, lines of her body. She, too, could look like that. She only had to cut out the chocolates and the wine, swim ten kilometers each day and spend a minimum of two hours every morning at the gym. Simple. That and a stretching rack. Pauline had a good twenty centimeters in height on her.
While Pauline was still in the throes of her speech, Brenda slipped back into her own chair, her pursuit of love abandoned for food. For the time being anyway. Megan had to admit the multicolored herb salad Brenda was already tucking into looked rather appetizing, even to someone like her who thought vegetables should be reserved for garnishing.
After a perfunctory toast from Pauline, conversation at the table quickly came to a standstill as everyone became preoccupied with their entrées. Megan felt like the odd one out when, with a quick glance around the table, she realized she was the only one who’d not ordered a first course. Watching other people eat had never been her idea of fun, but she only had herself to blame. Thank goodness her dinner companions didn’t dally too long over their meals. With the plates cleared away, conversations were soon resurrected.
Wayne stood, clearing his throat. “Be back in five.”
Megan nodded, waited for him to leave and breathed out. After a minute, she sensed rather than heard a movement behind her.
“I hope you don’t mind,” said the spectacled guy from across the table as he dropped into the vacated seat. “But you looked like you were in need of rescuing.”
“Was I that obvious?”
He leaned in close. “Not obvious enough in my opinion.” His warm breath tickled her ear. “Some people just love the sound of their own voice.”
“Nick, isn’t it?” She caught a whiff of cologne.
“Right. And you’re Megan.”
She nodded, shifting in her seat.
“First time?”
“Guilty.”
Propping his elbow on the table, he peered around her. “Your friend’s first time, too?”
Megan drew a deep breath and lifted her chin. “Actually, she’s only here to support me.”
“Good friend.”
“The best,” Megan said. “What about you? Are you a Dinner for Twelve virgin, too?”
He laughed. “I wish. No, I’ve attended a few of these functions. Call me a sucker for dinner parties with strangers.” Nick’s gaze strayed to the other side of the table.
“Or new friends.”
“Sorry, what was that?”
“Dinner parties with new friends.”
“Right.”
At that moment, Wayne returned. “Do you mind?”
“Just keeping it warm for you, mate,” Nick said, standing.
Megan reached for her wine. By the time the main courses arriv
ed, she was famished and more than a little tipsy. Her Cajun chicken could have been made of cardboard for all she cared as she devoured it with gusto. With eating as an excuse, she didn’t have to continue feigning interest in Wayne’s prattle. If she heard negatively-geared or positive cash flow one more time, she couldn’t be held responsible for her actions.
Brenda, on the other hand, appeared to be in her element. The small clique that’d formed around her consisted of Pauline on her left and Lawson directly opposite her. Even the wanton Linda wasn’t impervious to Brenda’s charms.
However, those charms didn’t extend to Mr Ginger Moustache. His interests lay elsewhere, and unfortunately for Megan, she chose that instant to look up. She found to her disgust he was leering openly across the table at her breasts. And then the sleaze winked at her. She gagged, her appetite promptly deserting her. Her hand tightened around the stem of her wine glass. She only just managed to refrain from throwing what was left of her wine over the creep.
CHAPTER 3
Greg Jenkins’ foot slipped, the top rail almost castrating him. Scaling fences was definitely not what a business suit and dress shoes were designed for. Sensing he wasn’t alone, he looked around. A boy of around eight or nine years of age stood staring at him, dwarfed by a huge black Great Dane.
One glance at the beast’s massive, slobbering jaws was all the impetus Greg needed to complete his climb over the fence. He landed heavily on the concrete on the other side, his ankles taking the brunt, but at least he had a barrier between himself and the dog. Even though the boy seemed to have a firm grip on the leash, Greg entertained no doubt whatsoever who was leading whom.
“Are you a burglar?”
Greg’s eyebrows shot up. “Uh, no. My sister lives here and…” He stopped himself. Why should he explain himself to a kid?
Anyway, the brief explanation satisfied the boy, and he and his dog ambled off down the footpath. Some neighborhood watch team they made.
He’d called around to his sister Sam’s place the day before and even though her car had been in the driveway, there’d been no sign of her. Assuming that her new guy had whisked her away for the weekend, he’d used the back of one of his business cards to leave a message for her, asking her to call him as soon as she got in. It’d been less than twenty-four hours since he’d shoved the message under her front door, but the more he thought about it, the less likely he thought that his sister would just take off without telling anyone where she was going. Let alone disappointing their mother.
He told himself he wasn’t being paranoid. He just happened to be passing her place on the way to an appointment. As a self-employed financial planner he worked around the needs of his clients, and unfortunately, sometimes Sundays were the only days they had available to see him. Hence the suit.
He turned from the padlocked gate and started down the concrete path.
A cockatoo screeched. He jumped, losing his stride.
“Yes, you!”
Frowning, he turned.
“Oi, what the ’ell do you think you’re up to, matey?”
Cockatoos were smart but not that smart. Shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare, he searched for the source of the noise. The chubby bespectacled face staring down at him from the fence didn’t resemble a parrot in the least.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, what are you doing? You don’t live here.” The woman’s two chins jutted forward as if to say you can’t fool me.
“Mrs…” he paused, expecting her to fill in the blank. She didn’t. “This is my sister’s place.”
She studied him, her eyes narrowing behind the thick lens. “Oh, yeah. Come to think of it, you do look sort of familiar.”
Familiar? What did she do? Spend her days spying on her neighbors?
Muttering under his breath, he turned to walk away but hesitated.
“Do you know Sam well then?” he asked, his initial irritation at being accosted by the nosey neighbor waning.
“Oh, yeah. What a lovely young girl she is. Always waves and says hello.”
On intimate terms then, he thought somewhat sarcastically. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Norma Ogden.” She smiled at him, warming to the situation.
“Mrs Ogden, Norma, when did you last see Sam?”
“Let’s see,” she said looking skyward for a moment before turning her attention back to Greg. “It must’ve been last Wednesday night. She looked pretty as a picture, too, I might add.”
“Was she going out?”
“Oh, yes, I think so. A young man called for her in a taxi.”
His pulse quickened. “Had you seen this man before? Do you know who he is?”
She frowned, cocking her head to the side. “Has something happened?”
Forcing a smile, Greg shook his head. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Mum thought Sam was driving up this weekend, but Sam’s obviously clean forgotten and made other plans.” He smiled again. “No worries. She’ll turn up,” he added, more to reassure himself than Sam’s neighbor.
A telephone rang somewhere in the house behind Norma Ogden. She looked over her shoulder and back again at Greg, obviously torn between staying and going. “Sorry,” she said, climbing down from whatever she was standing on, “I’ll have to answer that.”
Still thinking about the mystery man in the taxi, he continued on his way, following the path around to the back of the house.
The timber boards creaked as he stepped up onto the partially enclosed back veranda. A pair of scruffy sneakers, missing their laces, lay discarded in front of the coir doormat. The selection of herbs lined up in small terracotta pots along the wide balustrade looked in need of a dose of water. Nothing out of the ordinary then.
He stepped over the sneakers, and banged on the door. “Sam, it’s me. If you’re there, open up.”
Waiting less than thirty seconds, he tried again. Pressing his ear up against the door, he held his breath as he strained for any sound of movement within. Nothing.
Now what? Hand on head, he scanned the veranda for possible hiding places. Then he lifted each pot of herbs in turn, checking first under the saucer and then between the pot and the saucer. He checked under the doormat. He even looked under the damn ridiculous gnome that Sam called her good luck friend. He searched everywhere his sister could’ve possibly hidden a spare door key. He came up empty-handed, his efforts wasted.
Scratching under his shirt collar, he walked out onto the threadbare lawn. Something else in need of water. Where was Sam? What the hell was she playing at? She was pushing the envelope too far this time. Where was her head? Didn’t she realize that their mother wasn’t up to coping with this sort of stress? Undoubtedly, Sam would turn up all bright and cheery wondering what all the fuss was about. God, he hoped it was as simple as that.
A sudden vibration against his chest nearly sent him into orbit. Taking a deep breath, he reached into his inside suit pocket and drew out his BlackBerry. Any ray of hope it might be Sam calling was dashed as soon as he saw the caller display.
He cleared his throat. “Greg Jenkins.”
“Greg, it’s Henry Kent.”
The client Greg was on his way to meet.
“Morning, Henry. Good news: I managed to track down those stats you were after.” No one eavesdropping would’ve ever suspected he was standing in the middle of his absent sister’s backyard gazing vacantly at the dilapidated rotary clothesline taking centre stage.
“Good. Look, sorry to do this to you, but can we reschedule?”
“No problem.” He switched his BlackBerry to hands-free mode and pulled up his calendar. After finding a new appointment time that suited them both, he ended the call. For a change, fate was on Greg’s side. Now he could devote more time to tracking down his AWOL sister.
First things first, he needed a plan of action. Retracing his steps, he returned to the veranda and tried calling Sam’s mobile again. When it diverted to her voicemail, he hung up without leaving
a message. He’d already left four. Next, even though he knew it was pointless, he tried her home phone number. From inside the house he heard the muffled jangle of a ringing phone. He let it ring until, with a resigned sigh, he disconnected the call.
Restless, he paced the veranda. He didn’t even know in what direction he should be heading. In a sense, he was stranded. No way did he want to climb back over that treacherous fence, but without a key, he also had no access to the street through the house.
But he had to do something. Even if it was just getting into the house. For all he knew, his sister could be lying comatose on the floor inside. Kicking aside the sneakers, he rattled the doorknob. If this were a movie, the script would have called for the door to be unlocked. Real life was never that easy.
Stepping back, he drew out his wallet from his hip pocket and opened it. The first credit card that came to hand was his Visa. He tried to maneuver it between the door and the doorjamb – something else he’d seen in a movie. All he succeeded in doing was to buckle his credit card, rendering it useless.
He shed his suit jacket, his gaze sweeping the veranda and beyond. In the backyard’s far corner, past the clothesline, sat a small windowless corrugated-iron shed. With any luck, he might find the housebreaking equipment he needed in there.
The bolt on the shed door was stiff, but with a little jiggling and grunting he managed to slide it back.
He stepped inside, breathing in the musty-earth air. His eyes took a moment to accustom to the gloom. A host of spiders had set up home, gossamer threads spanning the width and breadth of the enclosed area. He shuddered, and using one of the garden stakes propped by the door, cut a swathe through to the back of the shed where a motley collection of garden implements lay rusting.
This was ridiculous. He didn’t know the first thing about breaking into a house. Breaking a term deposit, yes, but housebreaking was way outside of his realm of expertise.
He bent forward and gripped the grimy wooden handle of what he thought was a spade. Unfortunately, the handle and the steel spade blade had parted company and he was left holding just the handle.