Fatal Liaison

by Vicki Tyley

  Brenda laughed. “How very deductive of you. So what does that mean?”

  “Be serious, Brenda. Justin or Greg or whoever he is seemed really anxious. And then there was Pauline’s little contretemps when she thought he was a cop.” Megan stared unseeing into the distance, rubbing at an invisible spot on her chin.

  “Lawson!”

  He started, almost toppling the untouched beer in front of him.

  “Lawson, what was Pauline referring to earlier when she said she’d told the police that the girl’s disappearance had nothing to do with you?”

  Lawson opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out.

  “Is the girl Pauline referred to the same one in that photo? Do you know her? Her brother – that’s making the assumption he’s telling the truth about that – is really worried about her.”

  With a despondent shake of the head and still avoiding her gaze, Lawson managed a few incoherent words before Pauline flew to his rescue.

  “Can’t you see he’s devastated enough without you two harassing him?” Pauline’s voice had lost all pretence at civility, her posh accent giving way to brassy overtones. “That woman latched on to young Lawson here, and then without a word of by your leave, discarded him and took off. To where we don’t know. Lawson’s better off without her, anyway.” She squeezed Lawson’s shoulder. “So does that answer your questions, ladies?” She bared her teeth in some semblance of a grin. “Right, that’s sorted then. Enjoy your evening.”

  Lawson lifted his head and with more verve than Megan had seen from him all evening, dislodged Pauline’s hand from his shoulder. Pivoting on his stool, he then confronted her. “I would really appreciate it if you would keep your nose out of my business. You are not my mother and I can fight my own battles, thank you very much.” The words came out hard and clipped.

  With a sharp intake of breath, Pauline’s expression crumpled, the self-righteous grin wiped from her face. Under the room’s low light and her heavy makeup, her face burned red. Embarrassment or rage? Both, Megan decided.

  Before she knew it, Lawson had deserted the three women and was jostling his way to the bar’s front door. Pauline remained rooted to the spot, her eyes pursuing him as he headed for the exit. Lawson tugged at the door, which swung inwards, and he slipped out.

  For what seemed like minutes, but were undoubtedly only seconds or fractions of a second, no one moved or spoke. Eventually Pauline dragged her gaze from the door and turned to Megan and Brenda.

  Pauline’s eyebrows drew together, her slightly protruding bottom lip trembling. Emotion Megan hadn’t until then equated with the hard-nosed, impeccably groomed woman in front of her. Pauline dropped her face into her hands, masking any further display of weakness.

  Megan glanced sideways at Brenda, who returned the look, her mouth contorting in a silent grimace. The sudden turn of events had clearly discomfited not only herself, but also her friend. At any other time, Megan’s first instinct would have been to console the upset woman, but she was far too wary of Pauline to let instincts take over. The woman intimidated her.

  Brenda jumped to her feet, poised to bolt. “Pauline… uhhh… can I get you a drink?”

  A muffled sound something between a sob and a hiccup escaped from behind Pauline’s hands.

  Brenda made a break for it, leaving Megan to contend with the uncharacteristically emotional woman. “Be right back. One stiff drink coming up.”

  Megan swallowed, her saliva bitter. What was happening couldn’t be real. It had all become too melodramatic for real life. Somewhere along the line, she’d been transported into the middle of a TV soap opera set. Okay, so what would the script call for now?

  Thankful for the barrier the table provided, Megan stretched out her hand and lightly tapped the table in front of where Lawson had been sitting. “Pauline?” Her voice was soft, scarcely above a whisper. “Pauline? Why don’t you have a seat? Brenda will be back soon.”

  There was some sniffling before Pauline peered at her through splayed fingers. “Beg yours?”

  Megan gestured to the vacant stool opposite her, while at the same time casting her eyes over the room, searching for Brenda. Some friend. She’d kill her for leaving her in this predicament. It caught her off guard when she spotted Brenda at the bar talking animatedly to Mr Ginger Moustache.

  “Sorry, Pauline. What did you say?” Her attention remained focused on the bar.

  “Never mind. It wasn’t important.” The hard edge was back in Pauline’s voice.

  Surprisingly, Megan actually felt quite comforted by that. She looked around only to find that Pauline had decamped. She shook her head and, without another thought for Pauline, returned to trying to make out what was happening over at the bar.

  Brenda knew what Megan thought of the lecherous ginger-mustached man. Not much. What was going on? It didn’t appear Brenda was giving him a dressing down or a brush-off. From the serious expressions on their faces and the slowing of Brenda’s hands, the conversation tone had obviously sobered. And whilst their heads edged in closer to each other, their feet remained fixed in one spot. So, what was going on?

  Almost beside herself with curiosity, Megan was in two minds about what to do. Her aversion, however, for Mr Ginger Moustache kept her backside firmly planted on the bench-seat. She was still watching the pair when Brenda turned and pointed in her direction. Megan shrank back. She’d have ducked under the table if she could’ve got away with it. Mr Ginger Moustache glanced towards the rear of the room where she sat, but even if he did see her, he never acknowledged it. Turning back to Brenda, he nodded and drew what appeared to be some type of wallet from his hip pocket.

  She became more intrigued when he extracted something from the wallet and handed it to Brenda. What she’d have given to eavesdrop.

  As the barman approached the counter where the pair stood, they stopped talking, turning to converse with the barman. With only their backs in view Megan had even less of an idea of what was happening.

  So preoccupied with the events at the bar, she failed to notice the spiky-haired man standing a couple of paces away. It wasn’t until he coughed that she became aware of him.

  “Yes?” she snapped, eyeing the intruder with undisguised hostility.

  He stepped backwards, stumbling over his words. “…uh… sorry… uh… to bother you…” He turned to walk away.

  She couldn’t blame him. Even she was taken aback by her own belligerence. “No, wait.”

  He hesitated.

  “Sorry, I really didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

  With a slight skew of his body, he peered over his shoulder. She met his gaze with an apologetic half-smile.

  He hesitated, then turned to face her, standing with his legs apart, as he waited for her to continue.

  Something about the way he looked at her with those intense, deep-set eyes flustered her. Her hand drifted to her throat as a swell of heat rose from her chest. “Sorry—” Why was she apologizing? But she couldn’t help herself. “Sorry,” she repeated. “How can I help you?” Now she sounded like a helpline operator.

  He smiled, his eyes creasing in amusement. “I saw you sitting here alone and thought you might like some company.” He extended his hand. “Joe Renmark.”

  It took her a second or two to remember the supposed reason she was sitting in this bar. The same reason why he and everyone else in the room was there. His hand swamped hers, his grip warm and firm. In the middle of introducing herself to Joe, she happened to glance to his right and spied Brenda, laden with drinks, carefully wending her way through the maze of tables and people. And to Megan’s dismay, Mr Ginger Moustache was right on her heels.

  Joe’s amused expression turned to one of bewilderment as Megan wrenched him into the seat next to her. It’d been totally instinctive on her part, a protective measure. If the seat beside her was occupied, then there was no possibility of Mr Ginger Moustache stationing himself too close.

  Brenda, her face rigid with
concentration, squeezed past the last obstacle in her path. Only after offloading her clutch of two glasses of red wine and a tall tumbler of dark liquid did she raise her eyes. The beginnings of a smirk tweaked the corners of her mouth as she claimed the barstool directly opposite Megan.

  Leaving Joe to fend for himself and ignoring Brenda’s unmistakable glee, Megan selected one of the glasses of red wine and lifted it to her lips, inhaling the slightly astringent aroma. Joe rose to his feet and formally introduced himself to Brenda and her newfound best friend, reinforcing Megan’s impression of him as a gentleman.

  Megan’s manners, on the other hand, left a lot to be desired. What was wrong with her? After all, suave attractive men didn’t pop into her life every day. She couldn’t even put her crankiness down to PMT. The last time Brenda had ribbed her about being a lipstick-wearing Rottweiler was less than two weeks ago.

  Setting her wine glass on the table in front of her, Megan raised her eyes and gazed straight ahead at Brenda. Unfortunately, the imaginary blinkers she had fitted didn’t work, and she couldn’t help but catch Mr Ginger Moustache’s crooked leer out of the corner of her eye. She shivered, the hairs on the back of her neck rising. What had prompted Brenda to bring that man back to the table? Especially when she knew how Megan felt about him.

  Trapped behind the table, there was no quick exit. At least there was safety in numbers. The inclination to swig the rest of her wine was strong, but the memory of last weekend’s hangover remained fresh in her mind. Instead, she took a deep breath and steeled herself, arranging her features into what she hoped was a neutral expression.

  The very least Brenda owed her was an explanation. And it’d better be good. But until then, Megan would have to bide her time playing the game and making small talk.

  “Not a bad place,” Joe said, next to her. “Have you been here before?”

  Megan shook her head. “It’s quite new. I think it used be a sushi bar.”

  “You live in the city?”

  “St Kilda, but I work not far from here. What about you?”

  “North Carlton – home of the Blues. Do you follow the footy?” He swigged his beer.

  She pulled a face. “I’m not a big sports fan, sorry.”

  The corner of Joe’s mouth lifted in a lopsided grin. “It’s not a crime.”

  She spent the next ten minutes trying to avoid getting into any form of conversation with Mr Ginger Moustache. She needn’t have worried. He was more intent on bragging to Brenda, waffling on about his awesome skills as a landscaper and how much presale landscaping increased property values. Every now and again, he’d move his head and try to bring Megan into the conversation by asking her a question. Her curt one- and two-word replies soon defeated him.

  Breathing a little easier, Megan slouched in her seat, using the bench-seat’s padded back to support her spine. Closing her eyes for a second or two just confirmed how exhausted she really was. If she didn’t get her second wind soon she’d have to abandon Brenda yet again. That or fall asleep at the table. She opened her eyes, blinking rapidly in an effort to ease the dry gritty sensation.

  Joe was speaking, but she only caught the tail end of what he was saying. Something about bush fires. She nodded her head hoping it was the appropriate action. He continued talking, the mellow tone of his voice hypnotizing her. On one level, she was listening to him, but on another, her thoughts were faraway pondering Lawson’s abrupt and moody departure, Pauline’s clingy overprotectiveness of Lawson, Mata Hari’s absence, and Gregory’s missing sister. As far as she could deduce the only common denominator was Lawson.

  A pat on her hand broke her trance. “Earth calling Megan.”

  Megan looked up, her eyes focusing on the source of the voice. Brenda sat perched on her barstool opposite, grinning at her, her head tilted to the side, waggling her hand in a royal wave.

  “Another?” Brenda nodded at Megan’s empty wine glass. “The boys are just on their way to the bar. Aren’t you?” she said, bestowing her most charming smile on Joe and Ginger Moustache. Neither man had the temerity to refuse her.

  As soon as the two men were out of earshot, Megan seized the opportunity to tackle Brenda about Ginger Moustache. “What possessed you to hook up with…” She paused and flicked her head in the direction of the men’s retreating backs. “…him?”

  Brenda didn’t miss a beat. “Business,” she replied matter-of-factly.

  “What do you mean, business?”

  “Business. What I do.” Brenda unzipped her handbag, fished out a business card and presented it to Megan with a flourish. “Real estate business. Not only is Robert looking to add to his property portfolio, but do you know how hard it is to find good landscapers, let alone specialist presale ones. So be nice to him.”

  While Brenda talked, Megan studied the business card, a simple two-tone green background with a stylized leaf overprinted on the left. The name on the card was Robert Lockwood. Under the name, in smaller block letters, were listed a mobile phone number, an email address and a P O Box address.

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit suss?” Megan asked, as she handed the business card back to Brenda.

  “What?”

  “He doesn’t have a street address or landline.”

  Brenda glanced at the card, a slight frown creasing her forehead. “No, not really. He’s a contractor. He probably doesn’t have a fixed office. Not everyone does, you know.” She dropped the business card into her handbag, closing the bag’s zip as she turned back to Megan.

  Brenda’s face lit up with a cheeky smile. “Enough about business. Your new lover-boy is far more interesting. C’mon, spill the beans. Tell me all about him.”

  Megan rose to the bait. “Lover-boy?” she spluttered. “I’ve only just met the man.”

  As soon as Brenda started cackling, Megan realized her friend was indulging in one of her favorite pastimes, winding her up. Even after all their years as friends, Megan still occasionally allowed herself to be reeled in.

  “What’s up with Lawson?” Megan asked, changing the subject. “He was really down in the mouth.”

  The slight frown reappeared on Brenda’s forehead, the corners of her mouth drooping. “God knows what his problem is. I sure as hell don’t. He really was moody though, wasn’t he?”

  Megan opened her mouth to reply, but Brenda continued, talking more to herself than to Megan.

  CHAPTER 9

  Strike three. How many strikes was he allowed?

  Greg stood on the footpath just far enough away from the bar he’d been banished from to be out of sight. He shivered as the wind lifted, crossing his arms over his chest and using his hand to pull the open neck of his shirt closed. Ties had a practical use, after all.

  Had he really the audacity to think he’d fare better than the police? Using his friend’s name as a subterfuge had opened a door, but from thereon in his strategy had failed miserably. All he’d succeeded in doing was to antagonize Pauline Meyer – his only link to Sam’s disappearance. The woman was like an unrelenting guard dog keeping unwelcome outsiders at bay. He wasn’t good with dogs.

  Lawson Green’s exit from the bar caught him off guard. In the split second their gazes met, Greg glimpsed sheer panic in Lawson’s face. Before Greg could stop him, Lawson fled across the road, dodging traffic, deaf to Greg’s shouts. Greg stared open-mouthed as Lawson reached the footpath on the other side and promptly disappeared down a side alley.

  CHAPTER 10

  Megan couldn’t believe it. Gentleman Joe as she’d nicknamed him, had asked her out to dinner and she’d accepted. To say she was feeling nervous was an understatement. She hadn’t been on a proper date since Darryl, the two-timing bastard, had unceremoniously dumped her. She was due to meet Joe Renmark at the restaurant in less than three hours. There was still time to back out. She felt a headache coming on. But what if Joe is the one to restore your faith in the male species, a voice inside her head admonished.

  Shaking her head, she hooked the h
anger over the rail, rejecting yet another shirt. Even though her wardrobe was crammed with clothes, she struggled to find something to wear. Yet another excuse to cancel dinner? After much consideration, she settled on black slimline trousers and a hip-skimming crossover black top. Even her shoes were black. The one redeeming feature was the top’s intricate silver buckle, lifting the look from bland to elegant.

  Next was the handbag. She upended the shoulder bag she’d taken with her to the bar the previous night on her bed. As she transferred a few of the bag’s contents to a clutch bag more in keeping with her outfit, she came across Gregory Jenkins’s business card. An image of his anxious face flashed through her mind. What had happened to his sister? What had the agency to do with it, if anything? Why was Pauline so anti the police? Was she merely protecting her business interests or was there more to it?

  Megan tucked the card under the edge of the telephone on her bedside table, thinking she would give him a call in a day or two. Perhaps his sister would have surfaced by then. She hoped so.

  She’d just turned back to the clutter on the bed when the phone rang. Reaching for it, she continued to sort her bag’s contents as she answered.

  At first there was only a breathless squeak followed by a loud gulp. “Oh my God, Megan! Oh my God!”

  Megan froze. “Brenda, calm down. Take a deep breath. What’s happened?”

  “Oh my God, you’re not going to believe this. It’s… the police…” Brenda’s voice trailed off. Hysterical sobbing followed.

  Megan dropped down onto the bed, bulldozing aside her wallet, hairbrush and sunglasses with the back of her free hand. It must’ve taken her a good five minutes to calm Brenda enough to get any sense out of her.

  “Take a deep breath,” Megan said, “and start from the beginning.”

  “Linda Nichols is dead.” Brenda paused, gasping for air. “Raped and strangled in her own bed.”

  “Are you sure?” Megan clamped the phone to her ear, struggling to absorb the news. It wasn’t possible. How could it be? They’d seen her in her full glory a week ago. Now Brenda was telling her that Linda Nichols, the woman she’d christened Mata Hari, was dead.