“Not from here but further along that way you can.” Dusty pointed in the direction we had come.
“I just went off home. Like I said, I wasn’t here long. Mornings are not my thing really. I like the views in the afternoon.”
The smell of his cigarette stung my nostrils as he took a last, long puff before tossing the stub to the ground. Dusty gave him a look of distaste, picked up a stick to make a hole in the sandy earth and buried the butt.
“That ash-hole is lying,” she said as we walked away.
“Ash-hole?”
“Morons who litter the environment with cigarette ash and cigarette butts. They’re ash-holes.”
That made me laugh. “I don’t see him as the type who’d get out of bed early in the morning,” I said.
“I couldn’t agree more. And he admitted as much himself. That probably means he had a particular reason for going there that morning.”
“To murder Marcia or at least to rob her,” I suggested. “Since her morning walk was a regular routine, it’s likely he knew about it. He might have hit on the idea of lying in wait and robbing her as a way of getting some quick money.”
“You could be right, Sean. He’s definitely lying; that much I do know.”
“The Dusty Kent lie detector?” I asked.
Dusty shook her head. “It was the way he locked eyes with me when he answered my questions. What that tells me is, he’s a practised liar,” she said.
Clearly, tone of voice was not the only indicator she used to determine a person’s veracity.
“Right. But I would have thought that if someone is like, able to look you in the eyes, there’s a good chance they’re telling the truth.”
Dusty shook her head. “That’s what a lot of people believe but they’re wrong. As for Norman Roach, lying is probably the only thing he’s good at. Even when he doesn’t need to lie, he’d still do so. It’s more natural to him than telling the truth. I think he gets a kick out of it.”
“You mean, deceiving people gives him a sense of power?”
“Exactly.” A thoughtful expression crossed her face as she continued. “You know, if he did hit on the idea of stalking Marcia to rob her, it’s not surprising that it all went wrong and he ended up murdering her. He’s just the sort to have grand ideas that go horribly wrong when he tries to act on them.”
“Right. So the police could be right about him being the most likely suspect.”
Dusty nodded. “If so, the problem lies in getting evidence against him. Maybe that’s what this case is about; not about finding out who did it but about finding the evidence to convict him.”
“You might be able to use your status as a famous author to get a confession out of him.”
Dusty started to shake her head then stopped abruptly. “You mean, he might want to be famous himself, might want to be the star of my next book?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“It’s worth a try, I suppose,” she said, after a moment’s consideration. “If nothing else comes up, like some concrete evidence against him, I might give it a go.”
She pointed at the track ahead. “Let’s finish the walk and follow the path that Marcia trod that day, or at least the path she usually walked.”
I followed Dusty as she headed in the direction of Crow’s Nest. Ferns lining the path in some sections brushed against our bodies.
When we reached the footbridge where Marcia was likely struck down, we crossed the bridge and paused for a few moments to acknowledge her. I shivered with the coolness of the air which contrasted with the relative warmth of the previous section of the track. Dusty walked a short distance along the edge of the gully.
“It was about here that her body was thrown, or pushed, over the edge.”
“Right. So she had either just crossed the footbridge on her way to Crow’s Nest or else she was on her way back and was about to step onto the bridge?”
“Yep. We have no way of knowing which, and it probably doesn’t matter all that much.”
Glossy cabbage palms and tall rainforest trees lined the path as we continued walking. When we reached Crow’s Nest we were rewarded with a stunning vista of the bay. Below us, surfers in wet-suits rode the waves while swimmers bobbed in the water.
“Warm sunshine and blue water,” said Dusty spreading her arms out wide. “It’s magic.”
I couldn’t help but agree. At the same time an image slipped into my mind: Marcia Hamilton, petite and elegant, standing here quietly at one with nature. Dusty and I looked at each other and I knew she too was thinking of Marcia. Her expression had changed to one of angry determination.
“If that slimy, obnoxious, low-life creep killed Marcia, I’ll get him.”
Chapter 12
I knew immediately why the place was called Rick’s. When I was a kid, I spent many enchanted hours curled up with my mother watching old black and white movies. As the only male child I was sometimes awarded special privileges. This was the one I enjoyed the most. In a houseful of children it was rare for any of us to have intimate moments with our mother so I savoured those evenings when my father was late getting home and Mum would pass the time watching her favourite old movies. I’d sneak into the lounge room which was dark except for the flicking of the television screen and climb onto the couch next to her. I loved the smell of her and relished the warmth and softness of her body.
“You should be in bed, young man,” she would say. Then she’d pull the rug over me and allow me to snuggle up to her and watch the movie. Mrs Miniver with Greer Garson was one she liked to watch over and over again. Second in the popularity stakes was Casablanca with Ingrid Bergman. The movies themselves were of no interest to me but I was old enough, around six or seven, to know that the women were beautiful. That, and the closeness with my mother, was enough to keep me interested until I eventually fell asleep.
Although a more glamorous version of Rick’s Cafe Americain in Casablanca, the facade of the boutique hotel I was looking at bore unmistakeable similarities to the original, including the heavy wooden doors flanked by lush green palms. Toby, who had probably never even heard of the movie, had described Rick’s rather dismissively as ‘one of those retro places’. Anyone familiar with the great classic movie would have been more reverent in their description.
Once inside, we were ushered to the right, the left leading to a stairway up to the accommodation area consisting of six luxury penthouses, each with a front view of the ocean and a back view of the central courtyard. According to Dusty each of the penthouses also had a price tag that would leave me speechless.
As it happened, it was the architecture and decor that left me speechless: white arches, brass fringed table lamps, carved wooden screens and Moroccan style tables and chairs. I had just stepped into a movie. Many times I had fantasised about that as a kid, stepping into the movie and taking Ilsa, actually Ingrid Bergman, in my arms. Of course, in my imagination I was no longer a little fresh faced kid but an adult male so charming and attractive that Ingrid Bergman simply lay her elegant head against my shoulder in sheer relief at finding such a man. Her breathless whisper was a reward beyond all rewards. “I have waited so long for you.”
I became conscious of Dusty tugging at my arm.
“Sean, what’s got into you? Do you want to stay here and gaze dreamy-eyed at the architecture or come and hear Summer sing?”
I pulled myself together and followed her to the appropriately named Ilsa’s Piano Bar. The piano, which looked like a replica of the mobile piano used by Sam in the movie, was on a grand stage large enough to accommodate an orchestra. I extended my fantasy for a few more minutes and imagined Ilsa was actually here in this room bathed in amber light. She would request that the piano player bring his piano to her table. Except the pianist, a young man whose hair was a mass of wild dark coils, was not Sam.
The warbling of the piano keys as the young man ran his fingers along the keyboard, the bustle of waiters and the conversations at other table
s dissolved into the background while Dusty and I studied the menu and discussed our choices. We were only alerted to the presence of a performer on stage when a deep smoky voice sang the first line of It Had to be You. I jerked my head up and saw, to my astonishment, that the owner of the voice was Summer. Her singing voice was a startling contrast to her soft speaking voice. A single spotlight picked her out standing in front of a retro vintage-style microphone; her slim body dressed in black jeans teamed with a black short sleeved top and a guitar slung over her shoulder.
This was no sweet rendition of the song. It was soulful and anguished – almost as if she were really saying I wish it hadn’t been you. Gone was the gentle doe I had met at lunch the day before. This girl had the dramatic presence of Piaf. Her voice had the same mournful passion. Behind her, the piano player displayed impressive skill and appeared so lost in his playing that he was oblivious to his surroundings. I sat mesmerised. Judging by the silence in the room, everyone else was in the same state. Loud applause greeted the performers as the song ended. Dusty picked up on the glance that Summer flicked at the piano player as she sang the last lines.
“That’s unrequited love,” she whispered.
“What is?”
“Didn’t you see the look she gave the piano player?”
“Unrequited love? You can tell all that from one brief glance?”
Dusty shrugged and sipped her drink, a green concoction in a long glass with crushed ice and a sprig of mint on top.
“The glance, her body language, and the song,” she said in answer to my question. “Didn’t you hear the pain in her voice? She wasn’t singing about a love she could celebrate; she was singing about a love she craved.”
“Right. I see. But how can you be sure the love she craves is the piano player?”
Dusty answered my question with a look that indicated she thought my powers of perception were hopelessly inadequate. It was not the first time I had received such a look from her. Growing up with so many sisters, I prided myself on having some inside knowledge about the workings of the female mind and yet Dusty often judged me as lacking in that area.
Summer sang three more numbers, adding to the musical accompaniment with her own guitar playing. At a signal from Dusty after her final song, she joined us at our table, accepting our compliments with graceful humility.
“Who’s the piano player?” asked Dusty.
The slight blush that rose to Summer’s cheeks might have been confirmation of Dusty’s earlier observation.
“That’s Daniel Green,” said Summer, her eyes glistening. “He’s a fantastic pianist, isn’t he?”
We all agreed. A short time later, after fresh drinks had been ordered and delivered to the table, Dusty broached the subject of Marcia’s murder. When Summer had mentioned that she would be performing at Rick’s tonight, Dusty seized on it as an opportunity to talk to Summer outside the family group.
“If it doesn’t upset you too much, I’d like to ask you a few questions about the morning your grandmother went for her last walk,” she said.
Summer nodded, stealing a glance at the stage where the piano player was pulling various cords out of their sockets and rolling them up, wrapping them expertly along his arm from elbow to hand.
“Did you see your dad before you left for the airport that morning?”
“No. He was still in bed. We left around five-thirty.”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you said you arrived home at seven-thirty after dropping Toby off at Ballina Airport. Is that correct?”
Dusty had earlier asked me to double check that Toby had actually caught the 6.30am flight to Sydney. In my desire to be thorough and certainly not because I thought Toby might harm his grandmother, I had checked his movements for the whole of that morning. It was no surprise to find Toby had been telling the truth about his whereabouts the morning his grandmother was murdered. Neither Dusty nor I suspected Summer of wrongdoing either but the discrepancy in the amount of time it took her to return from the airport needed to be clarified because, in Dusty’s words, ‘a good investigator leaves no questions unanswered’. Dusty also thought it possible that Summer might have been involved, willingly or unwillingly, in helping to cover up the crime.
Summer nodded in answer to Dusty’s question.
“I’m curious about the time it took you to get back,” said Dusty. “If you dropped Toby off at six, that means it took you over an hour to get back to Byron. That trip would usually only take around twenty or thirty minutes.”
Summer lowered her eyes. “The traffic slowed down to a crawl coming into Byron; there was some sort of hold-up.” Dusty’s green eyes shone and she leaned forward; a sure sign that she had spotted a lie. Unaware of the significance of Dusty’s scrutiny, Summer continued. “Then I called in for a cappuccino at The Pass Cafe and sat on the beach to drink it.”
The Pass is an internationally renowned surf beach. Surfers come from all over the world to ride the long tubing right-handers that are, I am told, second to none. I first heard about The Pass in Murloo when Dusty and I had occasion to search for two murder suspects from Byron Bay called Mark and Jamie. The Pass Cafe, named after the beach, is an excellent eating place overlooking the surf break. Cafe patrons can enjoy their meals and beverages indoors, in the sheltered outdoor eating area or, like Summer, they could wander closer to the beach with a takeaway coffee.
“Were there many out in the surf that morning?” asked Dusty.
“In the surf? I didn’t really notice.”
Summer’s eyes went involuntarily to Daniel before she realised her mistake and quickly averted her gaze. I didn’t need Dusty to tell me what that meant. Like many Byron residents, Daniel Green liked an early morning surf at The Pass and Summer liked to watch him, possibly without his knowledge. Dusty gave me a knowing look, which I ignored, but clearly she had been right about Summer’s unrequited love.
“Hey, guys!” Toby’s exuberant greeting preceded his arrival at our table.
Chapter 13
“Did Sums knock you out?” Toby grinned at us as he sank into one of the empty chairs. “I bet you didn’t expect her to have a voice like that, did you?”
“She was sensational,” I said. Dusty agreed.
Summer lowered her head in a gesture that indicated she was both pleased and embarrassed.
“Really, Summer,” said Dusty. “Your voice is incredible. Actually, it reminds me of someone. I heard this blues singer on the car radio earlier in the year. Apparently she was appearing here in Byron at the Bluesfest. I can’t remember her name. She’s English, I think.”
Toby and Summer were grinning at each other.
“Joanne Shaw Taylor?” they chorused.
“Yes! That’s her.”
“That’s Summer’s idol,” said Toby.
Summer nodded. “I’d love to be able to play guitar and sing like she does.”
I didn’t know of the singer they were talking about, but I knew that Summer was in a class of her own so I made my thoughts known.
“You don’t have to be like anyone, Summer,” I said. “You stand out just as you are.”
Dusty gave me a look as if to say: Ah, so you’ve fallen for the lady’s charms.
“See, Sums. What do I keep telling you?” said Toby, pride in his voice. He looked at me. “She’ll be singing at Bourbon Street one day.”
“Bourbon Street?”
Summer enlightened me. “It’s a famous jazz and blues club in New York. I’ll never be good enough to sing there. They only have the cream of the crop of blues musicians and singers. I want to go there though. Just to be in the audience would be enough for me.”
The last sentence was accompanied by an accusatory glance at Toby.
“What?” he said, with an air of innocence.
“You know very well what,” she said. “And I want it back.”
Toby widened his eyes and affected ignorance.
“I’ll deal with you later, little bro
ther,” said Summer, casting an apologetic glance at Dusty and me.
“Ooooh,” said Toby in mock fear, leaning back with his hands up in a protective gesture.
Summer gave him a kick under the table; the sort of affectionate sisterly kick that I had experienced many times from my sisters. Toby grinned and turned his attention to Dusty.
“Do you know how I first found out about you?” Dusty answered him with an enquiring look. “I did an oral presentation on one of your books at college. We were allowed to choose any modern Australian writer. Of course all the kids chose literary stuff to impress the teacher. I was the only one who chose a murder mystery.” He laughed, apparently pleased with his own audacity.
“Did you impress the teacher?”
He nodded. “I got an A. My teacher said she would have given me an A+ if I’d chosen a book… how did she put it… oh yeah, if I’d chosen a book from the recommended list.” Toby’s grin suggested he wasn’t concerned that he hadn’t been given the top mark. Going against the teacher’s recommendation was apparently more important to him.
“Anyway, that’s when I found out that you had caught every murderer in every single cold case you’ve written about. I read all your books after that. That’s why when the family were in a fizz about Nan’s case dragging on I suggested to Dad that it would be a good idea to contact you. Told him you were the best.”
Toby grinned at Dusty. He looked like a puppy that had done something he knew would please his owner and was waiting for the expected reward.
“I thought it was your father’s idea,” said Dusty.
Toby shook his head. “I hope he’s not taking the credit. It was all my idea.”
I thought I saw smugness in Toby’s face briefly. What was that about? Pleased with himself for impressing Dusty, perhaps.
“Very interesting,” said Dusty, looking thoughtful.
Toby stood up and raised his hand in a high-five style greeting as the piano player arrived at our table. They slapped their hands together, grinning at each other.
A Devious Mind Page 8