“This is Daniel Green, the one and only, the greatest piano player the world has ever known who will one day be appearing with the incredible Summer Nixon at Bourbon Street in New York. They’ll have to change their names, though. Daniel Green’s a bit ordinary; maybe Piano Dan. Summer’s quite a good name for a performer but Nixon is a bit lame. We could shorten it to Nix; that’d be cool. Piano Dan and Summer Nix appearing live. Get your tickets now. Don’t be disappointed.”
“Ignore him,” said Daniel, with a smile that had an appealing ingenuous quality. “Summer’s the only one who’ll be appearing at Bourbon Street.” As though aware his compliment might embarrass Summer, he added a casualness to it by reaching across to shake hands with Dusty and me as he spoke.
“Great to meet you, but I’ve got to go,” he said. Before he left, he squeezed Summer’s shoulder gently and murmured, “Catch you, later.”
Summer watched his retreating back.
“I’ll hitch a ride with Daniel,” said Toby, hurrying after the pianist.
“I think you’re close to your Uncle Brad,” said Dusty when Toby and Daniel had gone.
The mention of Brad brought a wistful smile to Summer’s lips. “He gets me, you know. He understands about my music. He told me to forget about going back to uni. Said I should follow my heart; focus on my music.”
Dusty nodded her understanding. “Why does he call himself the black sheep of the family?”
Summer tossed her head. “He’s different. He’s an artist; a creative person. He doesn’t like rules and boundaries.”
“But your grandmother didn’t see it that way?”
“Nan was just a bit old fashioned, that’s all. I don’t care what anyone says; Uncle Brad’s an incredible artist and he’s right to put his heart and soul into his work.”
“I take it his relationship with Marcia wasn’t very good?”
Summer gave Dusty a searching look. The gentle deer that I had thought Summer to be, suddenly flared into an angry tiger. Her eyes blazed. A sharp flush shot to her cheeks.
“Uncle Brad wouldn’t hurt Nan if that’s what you’re thinking. He’d rather avoid conflict than create it.”
“Please don’t get upset, Summer. Gathering information is part of my job. I’m not accusing anyone of anything.”
Summer seemed mollified.
“Actually,” continued Dusty, “I like your uncle.”
“He is rather nice, isn’t he?” said Summer with a smile. It was one of those moments exchanged between women that somehow or other excludes men. I felt an irrational stab of seclusion.
“No-one in my family would do anything to harm Nan,” continued Summer in a more serious tone. “The murderer has to be that Norman Roach.”
“I hope, for the family’s sake and for your sake, Summer, that he or some other stranger does turn out to be the killer.”
I knew that Dusty, being especially sensitive to the devastation crime could bring on families, was sincere in expressing that hope. To have to confront the realisation that the murderer comes from within the family would be almost unbearable. Looking at Summer, I hated to think how such a horrible truth might change her.
“But I do have to ask awkward questions,” continued Dusty. “And I’m sorry to return to the sad morning of your grandmother’s death.” Summer nodded. “When you arrived home that morning after dropping Toby off and calling in for a coffee by the beach, was your father at home?”
“He was in his office.”
“Did you see him?”
“I heard him shuffling some papers as I walked past on my way upstairs. I called out to him and he answered.”
Dusty wrapped up the interview by thanking Summer and urging her to have confidence in herself as a singer.
“It matters how someone dies,” said Dusty, after Summer left us to retrieve her guitar from the stage.
Not knowing what prompted the remark, I looked at her enquiringly.
“I was thinking about Summer and Toby,” she explained. “Their memory of Marcia will forever be tainted by the way she died. It’s so unfair.” A nostalgic smile softened her face. “I have happy memories of my nan. She died peacefully in her sleep. That’s not the sort of death that overpowers other memories. I can still smile when I think of her and laugh when I remember the fun times we had together. You know what we put on her gravestone? At her request. Life was a journey: I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. It makes me smile every time I think of it. That’s what we should have when we remember our grandmothers after they’ve died: smiles. But for Toby and Summer their memories will always be overshadowed by violence and a feeling of being unfairly robbed.”
I agreed. “I’ve been thinking about that myself. The same goes for Marcia’s children. Their memories of their mother will be clouded by the way she died. They’ve been robbed too.”
The words were out of my mouth before I realised their relevance to Dusty and her mother.
“It’s all right,” she said, noticing the look of chagrin on my face. “In one way, it’s better for me. Not knowing what happened to my mother is extremely difficult, but at least I can put off the moment when I might have to confront the truth. My memories are still undisturbed by violence.”
She sighed and gestured at her phone. “By the way, I had a text from Ken earlier. He had another call.”
“Same caller?”
She nodded.
“That’s a good thing. Right? It means this guy’s starting to trust Ken?”
“Yes. That’s the way Ken sees it.”
“Did Ken ask him for a meeting?”
“He asked the caller if they could meet at some stage and told him that he was willing to wait until he was ready.”
“And?”
“He said ‘maybe’. It’s so frustrating, though. Obviously he hasn’t given Ken his number or his real name so Ken can’t call him. All we can do is wait and we can’t be sure if he’ll ring again.”
I could hear the anguish in her voice. The promise, or at least hope, of some sort of clue to what happened to her mother was being dangled tantalisingly close and snatched away again with no surety of it coming back. I was beginning to realise the ramifications of this type of ongoing anxiety. In a way it’s probably just as debilitating as chronic physical pain. It puts a sombre edge to a person’s personality. Working closely with Dusty, I had witnessed her innate cheerfulness, the fun aspect of her personality and her fiery side. But these appealing elements sometimes retreated in the wake of a single-minded hardness and a cloak of sadness that I suspected was the result of what had happened to her mother or rather, of not knowing what had happened.
Chapter 14
“What the feck is an op shop?”
Dusty and I were walking along the main street of a small town not far from Byron Bay called Bangalow.
“Is that a good Irish expression?”
“What?” I was unaware that I had said anything distinctly Irish.
“Never mind,” she said, laughing.
Stopping in front of a shop, Dusty pointed.
“This is an op shop,” she said in answer to my question, which I recognised on reflection probably had revealed my ‘Irishness’.
Painted across the top of the store window were the words Bangalow Op Shop. A middle-aged couple standing nearby were smiling at me; their expressions indicating bemusement at the suggestion that I didn’t know what an op shop was. When I looked at the shop’s window display and saw the random assortment of clothes, cutlery, plastic flowers and books, realisation dawned.
“Right. A charity shop. But why is it called an op shop?”
Dusty gave me a sideways glance of incredulity. “You don’t call them op shops in Ireland?”
“Not that I know of. They’re not the sort of shops I frequent, but I think they’re just called charity shops.”
“Well,” said Dusty, assuming an air of authority, “op is short for opportunity. The shops offer customers the opportunity to sn
ap up a bargain and help people in need at the same time. Somewhere along the line ‘opportunity’ got shortened to ‘op’.”
“In typical Aussie fashion?”
“You got it. Why waste energy saying a long word like opportunity when you can just say op? Besides, it rhymes with shop.”
“Yes. Right.” I was still not sure why Dusty wanted to go to the charity shop. “I thought we were going to visit Norman Roach’s mother.”
“We are. She works here. I mean, she volunteers here.”
Inside, the shop was crammed with shelves of books, displays of crockery and rows of hanging clothes. A musty smell hung in the air. We were greeted by a grey-haired woman wearing a thin blue top that stretched across her protruding stomach and watermelon breasts.
“G’day, there,” she said, with a friendly smile. “Wanna have a look around?”
“Elsie Roach?” said Dusty.
“That’s right, love.”
When Dusty introduced herself and explained she was there to talk about Norman, Elsie’s expression became serious.
“The police have got it all wrong about him,” she said. “There’s no harm in the boy.”
“You do realise he’s their number one suspect for the murder of Marcia Hamilton?”
“Well, they’re barking up the wrong tree. Again! They’ve tried to pin murder on him before.”
Elsie dismissed the previous murder accusation with a heave of her chest and a breathy snort.
“He was convicted of attempted rape, Mrs Roach,” Dusty reminded her.
Elsie’s snort became more audible. “Rape! Can’t blame the poor girl for being frightened. All the same, Norman never intended to rape her. He was pretending to be some idiot character from a movie he’d seen. That’s all. He’s a bit… well, he’s a bit immature, you might say. That’s all. I know he’s done some wrong things, but just stupid things. He’s not evil. He gets a bit caught up in his fantasies, you know. If he has a camera he thinks he’s a world famous photographer. When he reads a book, he thinks he’s the hero in the book, starts behaving just like the character in the book.”
She paused to offer a wave and a cheery smile to a passer-by she spotted through the window. “When he sees some big event being reported on the news, he thinks he’s a part of it. You know, makes up some story about having been there or knowing someone who was involved.”
Elsie picked up a stack of coat hangers from the counter and threw them into a cardboard box.
“I remember one time,” she said with a laugh, “it was when the writers’ festival was on. You’d know about that, love. The big writers’ festival they have every year in Byron Bay.” Dusty nodded. “Anyway, some TV star was here – you know, the bloke from the ABC, can’t remember his name. Ever so nice he was. He was standing next to Norman in the newsagent, probably said hello to Norman or maybe just smiled. Next thing, Norman thinks he’s going to be on the television with him. Came in here looking for a suit to wear, the silly boy. That’s what he’s like. He’s not the sort to kill anyone. But try and tell the police that.”
Elsie rolled her eyes in acknowledgement of the incomprehensible obduracy of the police.
“Norman admits to being on the track that morning, the morning that Marcia Hamilton was murdered,” said Dusty.
Elsie folded her plump arms across her chest with a decisive movement to further emphasise the incongruity of her hapless son as a murder suspect.
“Goodness knows what he was doing there. Especially at that hour. Never known him to get out of bed before eleven unless he had a very good reason. A very good reason! But I can tell you something for nothing; he wouldn’t have been knocking anyone over the head and pushing them down a gully.”
“You didn’t see him that morning?”
Elsie shook her head. “Didn’t see him at all that weekend, like I told the police. But that doesn’t mean a thing; don’t see that much of him at the best of times.”
Dusty, who had been leaning against the counter, straightened and prepared to leave.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs Roach.”
“Call me Elsie, love. Have a look around while you’re here. You never know, you might find something useful.”
“Thanks. Perhaps I’ll come back another time.”
“No worries, love. You’ll make his day, you know, if you put anything about him in your book. He’ll think all his Christmases have come at once.”
“I’ve got an idea about Norman Roach,” said Dusty as we walked back to the car. “I think we’ll go and see him after we visit Monique.”
Our next stop was an appointment with Marcia’s daughter Monique and her husband Chris.
We had almost reached the spot where we had parked the car when Dusty gripped my arm and halted my progress.
“What?” I said.
She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Look!” She pointed to a tall builder’s ladder leaning against a shop wall. “You were just about to walk under that ladder.”
“Right. And then what would have happened; seven years bad luck?”
“That’s for breaking a mirror. But walking under a ladder does bring you bad luck.”
To appease her, I stepped around the ladder. “By the way,” I said, “feck is an old Irish word meaning faith.”
Dusty, who had been walking around to the driver’s side of the car, gave me a look of disbelief across the bonnet.
“You weren’t thinking it was in some way related to another four letter word, were you?” I said, once we were inside the car.
“Sean O’Kelly,” she said as she turned the key in the ignition. “I think you’re having a lend of me.”
I attempted, unsuccessfully, to convince her of my sincerity during the short drive to Walkara to the home of Monique and Chris Martin. Their house was a masterpiece of architecture: a streamlined timber structure that blended perfectly with the semi tropical trees and plants that embraced it. The house was so enmeshed with the natural environment that I found it hard to imagine how the builders managed to construct it. Steps expertly crafted from natural stone took us on a winding journey through the thick vegetation up to a decking that overlooked the road. An outdoor setting comprising a round table and four chairs conjured an image of leisurely afternoons enjoying drinks and soaking up the excellent views of the area, including the ocean.
Monique emerged from the sliding door before we had a chance to announce our arrival. After the tension between her and Dusty during lunch the other day, I was anticipating a lukewarm reception. However, we were welcomed graciously.
“We’re just in here,” said Monique, ushering us into the living room which seemed even more spacious than it actually was by extensive use of windows and a vaulted timber ceiling.
“This is my husband, Chris.”
The man sitting at the gleaming wooden dining table was in his early forties with cropped dark hair. His bushy eyebrows suggested the possibility of Irish ancestry. I liked him immediately. When he rose to meet us, I saw that he was almost as tall as I – about five feet eleven. His smile was warm and his handshake firm.
“Very pleased to meet you both,” he said in a deep, husky voice which I found easy on the ear.
Chris organised a tray with soft drinks and bowls of nuts. I was startled when I viewed him from the back. His short hair had been tapered in at the nape of the neck and a rat-tail allowed to grow. It dangled, unbraided, to his shoulder blades. The hairstyle was unexpected on a man who was dressed in tan canvas pants and a black T-shirt, matching his conservative demeanour.
As we settled around the table, Chris mentioned his software development company. We fell into a conversation peppered with computer lingo that had Dusty and Monique exchanging glances of bemusement. I was particularly interested in a new software app that Chris had designed. He jumped at the chance to talk to someone who understood the technical terms he was using and we were soon engrossed. In the background I heard Dusty ask Monique about the dress she was wea
ring; a simple shift in a brightly coloured pattern of swirls and dots.
“I’m the owner of Cavenbah Creations. We have our own fashion range based on Aboriginal designs, all created by local Arakwal women.”
As I became more absorbed in my discussion with Chris, their conversation about fashion faded to an almost inaudible murmur.
The convivial atmosphere eventually took a serious turn when Dusty cleared her throat and explained that she wanted to ask Monique and Chris some questions.
“Before you do,” said Monique, “I’d like to know what you’ve found out about that Roach creature.”
From the determined look on Monique’s face I could see she was single-minded in her desire to see Roach convicted.
“I’ve interviewed him,” said Dusty.
“And what did you think?”
“He’s a bit weird.”
“That’s an understatement. I can’t understand why the police haven’t arrested him.”
“They don’t have any evidence, Monique. Other than the fact that he was there that morning, there is nothing to suggest he had anything to do with your mother’s death. If they arrest him without enough evidence, he’ll get off. You don’t want that, do you?”
Monique shook her head. “Of course not. That’s why we asked you to work on the case. Your record shows you’re good at getting at the truth.”
“Now that’s what I call an understatement,” said Dusty with a grin. “I’m not just good at getting at the truth, I’m the best.”
Despite her light-hearted tone, I knew Dusty believed what she said.
“My strike rate is one hundred percent,” she continued.
“In that case,” said Monique, “there must be some way you can catch Roach.”
“I’m going to meet him again this afternoon. Let’s see what he reveals then.”
“You’ll let us know, won’t you?”
Dusty reassured Monique on that point and moved on to the interview. “I need to paint as complete a picture as possible of what everyone was doing the morning your mother died, Monique. What were your movements that morning?”
A Devious Mind Page 9