“I’m going to have to tell the police, Norman,” said Dusty, in a tone a school teacher might use to scold a recalcitrant student. “They may charge you with wasting police time.”
“Wasn’t my fault they got the wrong idea,” said Roach with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. “I didn’t say I murdered her. They were so sure I was there. I just let them think that. Anyway, I told ’em I wasn’t there at first and they wouldn’t believe me so it’s their own bleedin’ fault. Useless pigs.”
Chapter 17
Dusty wore a sombre expression as we left Roach and made our way down onto the beach. We were both wearing sandals, pretty much standard dress in Byron. It was easy to slip them off and walk barefoot in the foamy water that lapped onto the sand and settled around our toes. Although the dolphins had gone, there were still plenty of humans in the water riding the waves on their surfboards. Snatches of conversations, shouts and laughter floated through the air. Closer to shore, people were swimming while others lay on the sand under beach umbrellas or strolled along the beach as we were doing.
Dusty stood gazing out at the ocean in silence for a few minutes before articulating her thoughts.
“I was thinking about Elsie Roach,” she said. “Remember how Rose said she’d always find money to help others even though she only has a pension which is probably hardly enough for her to support herself.”
“I remember.”
“I admire people who have that sort of unselfish generosity. My grandmother was like that. She gave up everything to look after me when my mother disappeared. Whatever money she had went towards helping Dad give me what I needed.”
I sensed she was leading up to something that she was hesitant about revealing. I waited in silence. Finally, she heaved a sigh and continued.
“I admire people like that because I can’t do what they do. I have plenty of money but I don’t give it away easily. I do give money to what I feel are worthy causes, but that’s different to the sort of unthinking kindness of people like Elsie Roach. And I’d be resentful if I had to give up everything to look after someone else. I wouldn’t embrace it with an open heart like Nan did.”
She gave me a rueful smile. When I opened my mouth to speak, to offer her a platitude that might make her feel better about herself, she raised her hand.
“It’s all right. I accept the way I am. Maybe in my old age, I’ll soften into a generous and giving person.” She laughed away her dark mood and the vitality returned to her eyes. “Let’s get back to the job in hand.”
“Right. We seem to have made progress,” I said. “If Roach’s story checks out, your theory about one of the family being the murderer looks more likely.”
“I’m pretty sure his story will check out. That is one devious mind, but not the devious mind I’m looking for. It was clear from the start that Marcia’s murder wasn’t his type of crime.”
“Not his type of crime? But he has attacked women before.”
“Sexual attacks. That’s his thing. There was no evidence of anything sexual in the attack on Marcia.”
“Right. Good point. Still, it’s odd that he was identified by a local, the jogger I mean, if he wasn’t even there.”
“Ah, but he wasn’t positively identified. Morehouse described the person he saw and Roach fitted the description. Then when the police interviewed him, Roach decided to let them think he’d been there. Naturally, they didn’t look any further. They won’t be happy when they get this news. Trying to find out who it was that Morehouse really saw that morning will be that much more difficult because of the time that has elapsed.”
“Right. Roach will not be like, on their most popular list.”
Dusty shook her head. “Somehow, I think Norman Roach’ll enjoy that. The angrier they are at him, the more he’ll like it.”
“What about Morehouse? Maybe he was the one who murdered Marcia. Pointed the finger at Roach to divert attention from himself.”
“Have you been sharpening your skills as an investigator by watching crime shows?” said Dusty with a grin. “Actually, the police are satisfied that Morehouse had nothing to do with Marcia’s murder. That doesn’t mean I’ve eliminated him completely. I just think, bearing in mind that most victims know their murderer, it makes sense to look at family members first.”
“Murdering your own mother. That’s… that’s… I can’t find a word strong enough. It’s worse than evil. How could anyone do such a thing?”
Dusty gave me a thoughtful look. “I like the way you put your hand across your heart when you said that.”
“Did I?”
“Yes. It tells me that killing a mother, or more specifically your mother, would be an unbearable act.”
“It’s unthinkable!” I said, shaking my head and closing my eyes in a futile effort to erase the image her words had conjured up.
“Not for a narcissistic personality; someone with a lack of empathy, a sense of entitlement and a need for control.”
I stood for a moment looking out at the sea, listening to the sounds of the waves breaking offshore. It seemed wrong somehow, discussing evil acts while walking along such a beautiful beach, with the sun shining and young children splashing in the water. Dusty, with her usual intuitiveness, interrupted my reverie with a welcome suggestion.
“Time for a break?” She pointed to some steps leading off the beach. “Hidden among those trees up there is a Byron Bay institution.”
I followed her to a cafe that was only a few metres from the beach but surrounded by rainforest. The soothing sounds of the ocean and the singing of birds while we ate lunch on a covered outdoor deck was just what I needed. We were at The Pass Cafe, the same cafe that Summer had called into for coffee the morning of her grandmother’s murder.
When a ladybird beetle landed on our table, Dusty grabbed my arm in excitement.
“She’s bringing us good luck,” she whispered, and added, “Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home.”
When the scarlet black-dotted beetle obligingly flew away, Dusty clapped her hands and grinned.
“You see. If she flies away, it’s good luck.”
I nodded; that was one superstition I was familiar with. Talking about ‘flying away home’ had reminded me that the conditions of my visa meant the time was drawing near for me to return to Ireland. I would need to let Dusty know before I left Byron. This might be the right time.
Before I could act on that thought, we were interrupted by a man I guessed to be in his sixties wearing a loose open-necked shirt and knee-length denim shorts who approached our table with arms outstretched.
“Ms Kent?” he said. “Dusty Kent?”
Dusty shook the hand he extended across the table, but not without some hesitation. I thought that might be because being approached by strangers was probably an occupational hazard for her.
“My name’s Pierre,” he said, with a broad smile that he possibly intended to be engaging, but which appeared to me to be merely superficial. “Very pleased to meet you.”
When he offered me his hand, I shook it and introduced myself. He had a firm handshake. Too firm. In fact, almost a bone-crusher. I was pleased to get my hand back.
“I’m the owner of a French restaurant in Lawson Street,” said our visitor as he gripped the back of a chair and gestured at it inquiringly. Dusty nodded and he sat down. His accent betrayed no hint of French ancestry.
“That would be Pierre’s Place,” said Dusty, sitting back in her chair. “I’ve passed it a couple of times.”
“Passed it? My dear lady, you’ve cut me to the quick. How could you walk past such a chic establishment?”
Dusty responded with a half-hearted smile. Pierre might have a French name and a French restaurant but his attempt at French charm fell short of the mark.
“You know who I am,” she said, her tone polite but cool. “Have we met before?”
Pierre gave her a quizzical look. “Someone as famous as you should not be so modest. Everyone in Byron knows who you are and why you’
re here.”
“I see,” said Dusty. “And is there something you wish to contribute to my investigation?”
“Clearly, you don’t know who I am,” he said, feigning disappointment, “which means that the Nixon family has refrained from mentioning my name. I don’t mean Pierre. That’s the name I go by these days because of the restaurant, but it’s not the name the Nixon family knew me as.” He paused for effect. “But it’s unlikely they’ve mentioned that name either.”
Dusty looked around as though seeking an escape route.
“What name might that be?” she said, with an edge of irritation in her voice.
“Perry Doran.”
Dusty and I exchanged surprised glances.
“Ah,” said Perry Doran, with a smug smile. “I see you’ve done your research.”
“Not really,” said Dusty. “All I know is that you were married to Marcia for two years.”
“And if it hadn’t been for that stuck-up son of hers, we would have stayed married.” I heard bitterness in his tone and saw it in his face.
“Fergus, you mean?”
“The very one. This is not the place to go into details, but there’s quite a bit you should know about that family. Come to my restaurant for dinner; as my guest, of course.”
After making arrangements for us to dine at his restaurant the following week, he stood up.
“There’s a private room,” he said. “After your meal, we can talk.”
“Ex-husband,” I said as I watched him leave. “He’s gotta be a suspect surely?”
“I wish.” Dusty sighed her disappointment. “He wasn’t in Byron Bay the weekend Marcia was murdered. He was four thousand kilometres away in Western Australia. The police ruled him out pretty quickly. Besides, he has no reason to murder Marcia; nothing left to him in her will.”
The following day, Dusty arranged a meeting with Fergus at Ardem. While we were waiting for him to arrive, I took the opportunity to share the results of my cyber digging with Dusty; the digging into the financial affairs of the Nixon family. I was sure what I had uncovered would put a new perspective on some aspects of the case.
Chapter 18
I started with Monique’s husband. That was good news, for me at least. I had developed an affinity with Chris and I didn’t want him to be a murderer.
“His software business, Bay Traders, is doing well,” I told Dusty. “Not as well as in previous years, but there’s enough money to keep it afloat during difficult times.”
“Money, Sean. That’s the motive for this murder.” Dusty’s eyes locked with mine. As always when I was faced with her direct gaze, a sense of guilt flared irrationally in me. “Did you dig deep? Did you find out everything there is to know about Chris’s financial situation?”
“There’s absolutely no need for him to get his hands on Monique’s money.”
I uttered that statement with mutinous conviction, defying Dusty to challenge me. I saw doubt in her eyes. She was still suspicious of Chris. Finally, she lowered her eyes and inclined her head. I took that as an indication she accepted my assurances.
I had scored a point. And yet… At the back of my mind a memory stirred. It teased me but didn’t reveal itself. What I had told Dusty about Chris was true, but something else was buried in my consciousness, something about Chris and money. It was frustratingly out of reach for the moment. Dusty interrupted my attempt at retrieval.
“What about the others? Are any of them in dire need of money?”
“None of them are millionaires like their mother. Brad owns his studio-cum-apartment and another property in a town called Nimbin. He doesn’t have a great deal in his account but his paintings sell quite well, so he manages to get by comfortably.”
“Did you find out about his secret past? What was it Chris was hinting at the other day? Some trouble with women, or a woman, in the past.”
“All I’ve been able to do at this stage is confirm that he hasn’t been married. Sorry, Boss.”
Dusty ran a hand through her mass of curls. “He doesn’t appear to have had any long term relationships at all. Seems odd. He’s a good looking, charming man. He’d have no trouble attracting women.”
I refrained from reminding her that local gossip hinted Brad preferred the company of men. She got up and walked over to the windows that looked out over the courtyard.
“That’s what I like about this place,” she said, pulling up the slatted blinds. “We can enjoy the outdoors even when we’re inside.” She added, “Did you check the details of Marcia’s will?”
“I did. After several generous donations to various environmental causes have been made, each of her children receives an equal share of her estate but, due to the nature of her death, the trusts cannot be touched until after the fifth anniversary of her passing.”
“That stipulation about waiting five years in the event of her death not being due to natural causes is odd. It’s as though she sensed something might happen to her. Maybe even sensed evil close to her; in her family,” said Dusty. “Apart from her disapproval of Brad’s lifestyle,” she continued, sliding back the glass doors and allowing a soft breeze to flow in, “the only real bone of contention in the family was money. I believe that’s the key.”
“Talking about money,” I said. “Would you like to know what I found out about the finances of the Nixon women?” Dusty looked at me expectantly so I continued. “Monique’s business is struggling to pay its way, just keeping its head above water.”
“Aha.” Dusty leaned casually against the door frame. “Finally, money has reared its ugly head. If Monique needed money, she might have felt an expectation that her mother would help her business. Perhaps she asked for a loan and was refused. Like Fergus and Lucy.” She paused, obviously trying to recall something. “I wish I could remember what it was Monique said the other day that bothered me.”
That was my cue. I should mention that something about Chris was niggling at me. I decided it would be better to wait until whatever it was came back to me. After all, it might not be important.
“What about the budding writer, Lucy?” asked Dusty.
“Lucy doesn’t appear to be in desperate need of money. She gets a good income from her job and receives regular child support payments from her ex-husband.”
“Hm. Lucy’s an unlikely suspect anyway. For one thing, she has an alibi. She was with her daughter on the morning of the murder.”
“Unless she primed young Coco to lie for her.”
Dusty pointed an approving finger at me and nodded. “Good point. We shouldn’t ignore that possibility. But I don’t really see Lucy, or her sister, in the role of murderer. Knocking a woman over the head; that’s a man’s crime. And in a public place. We’re looking for a man who’s not afraid to take risks; that’s another characteristic of a narcissistic personality.”
“While we’re on the subject of women…”
“Ah, you’ve been on the trail of Fergus’s missing wife?”
I’d been pleased to be given this assignment by Dusty. Using my IT skills was the best way of proving my worth to her. Those skills were what made me unique and therefore of value to Dusty. At least, that’s what I liked to think.
“Penelope Nixon is living in the stylish harbour-side Sydney suburb of Double Bay. She owns the apartment and is the sole occupier – at least according to official records. Going by her utilities bills –”
Dusty interrupted me. “Is there no end to the information a maze master can gain access to?”
“Don’t go there,” I said with a grin, secretly feeling smug that I had impressed her. “As I was saying, going by her utilities bills it doesn’t look like she spends much time there.”
“What does that tell us? Maybe she’s living at her new man’s home and keeps her apartment for when she needs some personal space. You don’t know who her new man is, by any chance?”
“I don’t know who her new man is. Not yet.”
“Hmm. If she’s living in
someone else’s residence, her name probably won’t be on the title. That’s going to make it hard to track down the address. What sort of work does she do?”
“She works as a freelance editor and is currently on contract to an international publisher with subsidiaries in Australia.”
“That’s the sort of work that can be done off site. All she needs is a laptop and an internet connection.”
“Right. She might not even be in Australia.”
Dusty was silent for a few moments, staring straight ahead, her brows furrowed.
“You know what?” she said, abruptly coming out of her reverie. “Toby and Summer attended school in Sydney – Toby still does. Penelope lives in the same city and doesn’t see her children? I don’t buy it.”
“You think the kids are in touch with her; that it’s Fergus she’s hiding from?”
“We know domestic violence is a serious issue in this country and most physical assaults against women occur in the home. What’s more, most women don’t report domestic violence to the police. It’s a very hard thing to report. The women, and their children, can suffer horrific reprisals if they do. Fergus is definitely a control freak. Maybe he used violence to dominate his wife. Perhaps Penelope thought it would be best for her and her children if she simply left.”
“Would she leave her children in the care of a man who’d been violent?”
“He may only have been violent toward her – perhaps in revenge for something she did. She might have had an affair, for instance. If she’s run off with a new man, that suggests something might have been going on. But you’ve raised a good point, Sean. Someone in the family must know where Penelope is. If she did leave because her husband was violent, she’d want some sort of contact, someone in the family, to make sure her children remained safe.”
“Assuming she’s a caring mother,” I said, even though I hated the thought of a mother not caring about her children.
“And that’s just what we’re going to find out.”
“Right. Good idea. Talking of finding out…”
A Devious Mind Page 11