Fatal Liaison

by Vicki Tyley

  Brenda and she arrived together, though Brenda soon became distracted by Lawson Green, who was standing at the bar, staring into his beer.

  “Drink?” Brenda asked.

  Megan squeezed in half a nod before Brenda bolted, leaving Megan to contemplate her surroundings. The crowded bar was a far cry from the so-called restaurant that had been her introduction to the world of lonely hearts clubs. Her nose wrinkled, the air thick with heavy-handed cologne mixed with desperation. That hadn’t changed.

  The idea behind this function, Brenda had told her, was that everyone could circulate freely and get to know each other in a less restrictive environment. No delegated seats. No boy-girl-boy-girl table arrangements. No being cornered without some form of escape route.

  Nevertheless, she felt self-conscious standing alone just inside the door, her name encased in plastic and clipped to her jacket marking her as one of them. Against the far wall, almost obscured by a huge gnarled potted Yucca, she spied a high upholstered bench seat – the ideal vantage point to watch the goings-on, yet remain relatively inconspicuous. Weaving her way through the carousing crowd, she recognized a couple of familiar faces, but most were foreign to her.

  Once ensconced on the bench seat, she scanned the bar and spied a face she hadn’t seen earlier. Nick – the man she’d hardly exchanged two words with – sat at one of the tables near the bar. Deep in a conversation with a bare-shouldered woman, he didn’t notice Megan. Her gaze continued past the couple to the bar.

  It came as no surprise that Brenda had chosen to order drinks from the spot right next to where Lawson had taken up position. What was remarkable, though, was there was no sign of Mata Hari, aka Linda. Had Linda and Lawson already fallen out? That’d certainly explain Lawson’s despondent demeanor. Megan watched as Brenda sidled up beside Lawson and spoke to him. Without lifting his head, he glanced at Brenda, said something and returned to staring into his drink. Brenda spoke again, turning side-on to the bar, facing Lawson as she laid her hand gently on his shoulder. From where she sat, Megan could only glimpse the tips of Lawson’s fingers as he reached up and patted Brenda’s hand before dropping his own back down onto the bar.

  Brenda’s mouth pursed in a triumphant smirk, reminding Megan of Brenda’s comment about all being fair in love and war. However, Megan thought, love on the rebound is dangerous territory. She ought to know. When Brenda returned with the drinks, Megan would remind her of that. That’s if she ever did. Ordering drinks was evidently the last thing on her mind.

  Megan glanced across the room, just in time to see Mr Ginger Moustache swagger through the door and head for the table to sign in and collect his name badge. Instinctively, she averted her eyes, avoiding any accidental eye contact.

  Pauline Meyer had yet to make an appearance. Maybe they wouldn’t be graced with her presence tonight. She imagined Lawson would be more than a little grateful about that. The way she fussed over him it must’ve felt like having your mother tag along with you on a date. Now that was a scary thought.

  Pauline chose that moment to make her entrance. Carrying herself with great aplomb, she waltzed through the room greeting her clients with a fixed smile and cursory nod as she glided past. Like a queen and her subjects.

  Megan had been so engrossed in watching Pauline that Brenda was almost at the table before she noticed her. Brenda’s face was fixed in concentration as, balancing two full champagne flutes, she negotiated her way through a conglomerate of elbows and backs. Immediately behind her, with his dark hair flopping over his eyes, followed Lawson looking no less glum than before.

  Shuffling sideways across the bench, Megan made room for the pair. She’d have to wait until later to remind Brenda what had happened when she’d become involved with a man on the rebound. After all, Brenda had been the one to pick up the pieces.

  In one sense it seemed as if it’d happened a lifetime ago, but in another it felt like it had only been yesterday. Megan had foolishly believed Darryl when he told her he no longer had any feelings for his ex. She’d unwittingly thrown herself body and soul into the relationship believing he was the one. When Darryl suggested they move in together, she’d been ecstatic. Life was finally coming together for her. Then less than a month later, with no forewarning, her world imploded. His ex was pregnant, or so he said. For the baby’s sake, his child, he had to be there. Surely she could understand that. The low-life had been sleeping with both of them. He even had the gall to pretend he still loved Megan.

  Brenda carefully set the two glasses on the glass-topped table before turning around to check Lawson was still with her. Satisfied that she hadn’t lost him, she clambered up on to the bench next to Megan.

  Lawson either didn’t see or didn’t take the hint when Brenda patted the seat beside her. Instead he chose to remain standing with his back to the room. His eyes were downcast and he seemed so distant that Megan wondered why he’d even bothered turning up. Clearly his tryst with Mata Hari hadn’t panned out as planned. Even Brenda’s fawning had failed to boost his spirits.

  Megan lifted her glass in a quasi-toast before downing a mouthful of champagne cocktail, the bubbles teasing her tongue. If the start of the evening was any indication, she didn’t hold out much hope for the rest of the night. She banged her glass down on the tabletop more heavily than intended, startling Lawson and sparking a chuckle from Brenda. Lawson gave his head a sharp shake and straightened his back, peering around as if suddenly realizing where he was.

  Smiling sheepishly, he set his glass of beer on a cardboard coaster and pulled up a stool. Whatever had been troubling him seemed to have all of a sudden been forgotten, the transformation quite extraordinary. It was if someone had flicked the “on” switch. His face lifted, becoming open and attentive. His eyes framed by those long seductive eyelashes were intense and alert.

  “Megan, isn’t it? We haven’t been formally introduced.” He extended a hand across the table. “Lawson Green.”

  She reached for his hand. “Megan Brighton.” His touch was cool, his grip firm.

  With the formalities out of the way, Brenda proceeded to liven up the occasion by recounting in dramatic style her disastrous day at work. Her hands did most of the talking. Brenda told a good story, even if it did tend to verge on the outlandish.

  Towards the end of the tale, Megan looked up and saw Mr Ginger Moustache homing in on their hostess. She watched in amusement as Pauline tried to brush him off. Megan didn’t need to hear what was being said, the body language was more than enough. It was like watching a pantomime. Pauline’s mask slipped and she looked ready to swat the single-minded sleaze at any moment. Maybe the night wasn’t going to be a write-off, after all. The entertainment was certainly proving interesting.

  Eventually, Pauline managed to escape from Mr Ginger Moustache’s clutches to continue working her way around the room, meeting and greeting. Halfway through her rounds, Pauline happened to look across the room, catching Megan’s gaze. Her eyes then drifted to Lawson, her hollow smile hardening. Within seconds she was by Lawson’s side, her heavily bejeweled fingers laying claim to his arm.

  “Darling Lawson, I’m so sorry you had to go through all that nasty business with the police. I told them that girl’s disappearance had nothing to do with you.”

  Megan’s ears pricked up, as undoubtedly did everyone else’s within hearing radius.

  CHAPTER 7

  Running late, Greg walked with lengthening strides down the footpath towards the Little Collins Street bar. As he paused to catch his breath, the door flew open, spilling an inebriated party of four out onto the street. The two women and two men were in high spirits as they cavorted up the footpath and disappeared into the night.

  Once inside the bar, he paused, allowing his eyes to adjust to the low light. The burble of multiple conversations interlaced with music enveloped him. To his right he saw what looked to be the registration table. The chair behind the table was empty, but laid out on the tabletop in a neat line beside a clipboard and
pen were five nametags, one of which he assumed belonged to him. At least he wasn’t the last to arrive.

  He stepped over to the table and studied the names, becoming puzzled when he couldn’t see his. Then he remembered. For tonight he was Justin, not Greg. Picking up his alias’s name badge, he clipped it to his lapel and turned to survey the room.

  A short pixie-like woman headed his way, her intent obvious by the hungry look on her face. He scowled. Bewilderment flashed across the woman’s face. Veering from her original course, she took a wide detour around him and made her way to the bar.

  Greg patted his jacket pocket, reminding himself why he was there. He shouldn’t have alienated the woman like that. He needed all the help he could get. Maybe she would recognize Sam from the photo in his pocket. Maybe she’d be the one with the crucial piece of information needed to track down his sister. Maybe. He sighed. There were too many maybes.

  He had to remember these people had all signed up with Dinner for Twelve searching for that elusive meaningful relationship. He was the one operating under false pretences. Summoning all the courage he could muster, he crossed to the bar to make amends. And maybe uncover his first lead.

  With his mouth arranged in what he hoped was an apologetic smile, he sidled up to the woman. She shot him a dismissive glance, paid for her strawberry adorned drink, turned and marched off. All without a word. No doubt he deserved it, but it still felt like a slap in the face.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead, the air in the bar stifling. It didn’t help matters that he hadn’t had time to change out of his business suit and tie. Compared to everyone else there, he was way overdressed. A barman took his order and while Greg waited, he used the time to remove his tie, rolling it into a neat ball before shoving it into his pocket.

  A tall glass of vodka and tonic arrived as he was in the throes of unbuttoning the neck on his shirt.

  “Thank you.” He paid for his drink and when the barman returned with his change took the opportunity to ask, “Do they hold these type of functions here often?”

  The barman shrugged. “Don’t really know, mate. It’s the first one I’ve worked at.” A small group of people at the other end of the bar demanded the barman’s attention. He excused himself, leaving Greg alone with his drink.

  Strike two.

  He picked up his drink, skolling half the glass in one swig. The ice-cold vodka and tonic gushed down his throat, hitting his empty stomach with a jolt. Without giving his stomach a chance to recover, he emptied the glass and signaled for another.

  With his drink replenished, he turned to face the room. Where should he start? How should he start? Perhaps he should’ve left it to the police to do their job. They knew what they were doing – he didn’t. Yet in two whole days, they were no closer to finding Sam. He couldn’t just sit back and do nothing.

  A chestnut-haired woman at a nearby table glanced up, her sleek bob skimming her naked shoulders. She caught his gaze and smiled. One of her table companions, a high-foreheaded guy in square-rimmed glasses, shot Greg a look of annoyance. Taking it as his invitation, he took his drink and headed over to their table.

  “Excuse me interrupting like this,” he said, withdrawing the photo of Sam from his jacket pocket, “but I’m hoping you can help me.”

  The woman sat up, her neck lengthening.

  “Do any of you remember this woman?” Greg asked, proffering the photo. “Her name’s Sam. She’s my sister.”

  A hand grabbed it. “Looks vaguely familiar,” said a pinch-faced man with thinning dark hair, “but can’t say where from. Sorry.”

  Another hand, another platitude.

  And so it went around the table until it reached the chestnut-haired woman. “Sweet-looking girl. Why are you looking for her? Is she missing?”

  “Yes. Do you know her?”

  The woman shook her head. “Sorry. I hope you find her soon. Nick?” She held out the photo to the guy with the glasses.

  He took it, gripping it by the corner, and studied it. “Sam, you say?”

  Greg nodded.

  “Know the face – not the sort of face a guy would forget in a hurry – though not the name. I remember her from another function, but that was awhile back. Have you checked with the agency owner?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Good luck, mate,” Nick handed the photo back to Greg. “Hope she turns up soon.”

  Greg was still contemplating his next move when a leggy, tousle-haired blonde sailed past him. Two steps later, she reversed.

  She squinted at his chest. “Justin, is it? You look lost.”

  “I am a bit.” Wasn’t that the truth?

  “You’re more than welcome to join our little party. Hang on a sec while I top-up the supplies.” She nodded at the trio of empty glasses clamped in her hands.

  Helping her to carry the drinks, he followed her back to her table at the rear of the room. On the table’s far side sat an attractive round-faced brunette, who at that moment was throwing barely veiled questioning glances at her friend. Opposite her, perched on a barstool, was a pale faced, high-cheek-boned man of around his own age.

  The blonde, whose name he was yet to discover, set the drinks on the table and spoke to her friend. “Where did Her Majesty disappear to?”

  “Pauline? Not sure. Said there was something important she had to attend to,” replied the brunette.

  Brenda, whose name he’d finally managed to read, climbed onto the barstool and motioned him to the vacant spot on the bench. “Megan doesn’t bite.” She chuckled. “Not much, anyway.”

  Megan, as Brenda had addressed her, proffered what looked to be a half-smile of resignation. It was as if to say, “Here we go again.” He had friends like Brenda, too. Interfering friends full of good intentions.

  For now, he would play along.

  Introducing himself as Justin, he slipped in next to Megan, catching a hint of her light floral perfume. About ten minutes into the small talk and an empty glass later, he pulled the photo of Sam from his pocket.

  Holding the photo edge between his thumb and forefinger, he held it face up over the middle of the table. “Would any of you know this woman? Maybe you’ve seen her at one of these functions,” he said, taking a slightly different tack than before.

  Brenda snatched it from his fingers and holding it close to her face, studied it intently. “Who is she? You a cop or something?” She handed it back. “Sorry, don’t recall ever seeing her.”

  Megan intervened. “But we’re only newcomers to this game. This is only our second function. Lawson or some of the others might be able to help. Actually Pauline would be the best bet. She’s the agency owner. Have you spoken to her?”

  He shook his head and passed it to Lawson. Lawson made no attempt to take it from him. “Sorry, mate, can’t help you.”

  “But you haven’t even looked at it.” Greg, or rather Justin, waggled the photograph of Sam taken the previous Christmas. “At least look at it.” He paused and lowered his voice. “Please.”

  Lawson’s chest rose and fell in a soundless sigh. Releasing the grip on his beer glass, he wiped his hands on his trousers and held out his right hand to accept the photo. Before he’d had a chance to glance at it, a hand darted across the table from seemingly nowhere, snatching the photo from his upturned palm.

  Greg’s eyes followed the photo as it disappeared from the table centre and found himself locked in Pauline Meyer’s stare. She stood framed between Brenda and Lawson, her eyes narrowed. “Mr Harris, may I ask what your interest in this woman is?” She didn’t pause long enough for him to take a breath, let alone respond. “Are you with the police? Because if you think you can waltz in here and start interrogating my clients, think again. Be assured that I will be lodging an official complaint with your superiors first thing tomorrow. Please leave.”

  With that, she tossed the photo into the centre of the table and walked off. An awkward hush settled over the table. Greg scanned the faces of the others. Megan with her w
idened eyes and parted lips appeared as stunned as he felt. A half-smile played on Brenda’s lips, giving the impression she knew more than she was letting on. And Lawson had returned to staring into his beer, his long hair blocking his face.

  Brenda looked across the table at Greg, that half-smile still evident. “Well?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Well, is Pauline right? Are you a cop?”

  He took a deep breath and exhaled. “No, I’m not a cop, I’m…” Greg faltered, unsure of how much he should be divulging. He picked up his glass before realizing it was empty. Conscious that his every move was being watched, he sat the glass back down on the table. He’d only just met these people. He knew nothing about them. How much or how little could he trust them? “Look, I don’t have much time.” Pauline Meyer advanced as he fumbled with the clasp on his business card holder. “I really need your help. Sam is my kid sister.” Sliding from the bench, he stood and dealt out three business cards. “Please call me.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “So what do you make of that?” asked Brenda with an excited yip.

  Megan shook her head, picked up the business card and scrutinized it. According to the card, Gregory B Jenkins was a certified financial planner, working under the banner of Jenkins Financial Services. It listed an office address in Carlton, together with an assortment of phone numbers and an email address. But hadn’t the man who had given her the card said his name was Justin something-or-other? “What did that guy say his name was again?”

  Brenda took the card from Megan. “Certainly not Gregory B Jenkins.” She screwed up her eyes and then reopened them. “Justin. Justin Harris. Or at least that’s what he called himself.”

  “Okay, so assuming he didn’t go to all the trouble to have business cards printed under a false name, then Justin has to be an alias.”