by Vicki Tyley
Grace stared straight through her and for a moment, Jacinta thought she had become invisible. Then she blinked, her eyes slowly focusing on Jacinta’s face.
“I can’t help you.” Grace’s voice quavered. “I need to be alone.”
Jacinta nodded.
She collected her satchel from the floor beside the chair, opened the zippered side pocket, drew out one of her business cards and handed it to Grace. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you; I assumed you would already have known about Craig and Narelle.”
At the mention of their names, Grace’s eyes narrowed. She looked on the verge of tears, her lips trembling as she opened the front door.
Jacinta was about to say something about the futility of burying the truth, but then thought better of it, and quit while she was still ahead.
“Please, Grace, think about what I said. You can call me any time of the day or night.” She stepped through the doorway, turned and added, “About anything, anything at all.”
“You’re talking to the wrong person.” The door swinging closed, Grace’s ashen face disappeared from view.
CHAPTER 7
“You’re unbelievable, do you know that?”
Jacinta held the phone at arm’s length and could still hear every word Brett was saying. Not that she could entirely blame him.
Grace’s words rang in her ears: You’re talking to the wrong person. What had she been alluding to? What wasn’t she saying? Perhaps it had just been a passing comment, intended only to send Jacinta scurrying off in a different direction.
She had spent more than an hour sitting cross-legged on the daybed, staring out the window at nothing, carefully weighing up her options before finally coming to a decision. Why couldn’t Brett understand that it wasn’t personal? It was business, nothing more. Anyway, his reputation is still intact and if he would just stop kicking up such a fuss, he’ll soon realise that I would never deliberately undermine him, she thought as, shifting position, she pulled her legs up under her.
What was wrong with inviting a few people to dinner? They had been talking about it for long enough. She would do her utmost to play the perfect hostess, making sure it would be an enjoyable evening of good food, wine and conversation. She was already planning the menu in her head. Something simple and elegant, she decided. It would have to be; her cooking skills didn’t stretch much further than simple.
Brett still wasn’t convinced. “Don’t do this to me, Jacinta.” He sighed and dropped his voice. “Don’t do this to us… please…”
“Brett, I really don’t know what you’re so concerned about,” she said, knowing full well what was on his mind. “I invited,” she added, trying to allay his fears, “Patrick and Shauna as well.”
Patrick Malcolm, an old school friend of Brett’s, had recently become engaged to his partner of eight years, Shauna Boise. The start-up of a new florist’s business on top of wedding arrangements had kept the couple busy. Consequently, Brett hadn’t seen much of his friends of late. Jacinta hoped that inviting them to dinner might offset, partially at least, her ulterior motive for inviting Craig Edmonds and his new wife, Narelle Croswell.
Brett paused in his tirade. Perhaps he was coming around to her way of thinking. Perhaps that was just wishful thinking on her part. More than likely, on the other end of the phone, he was shaking his head and trying to work out what her ploy was.
Jacinta seized the opportunity. “I swear I won’t mention anything at all about the case. You have my word.” And she always kept her word.
“So, what’s your agenda? Why have you invited a couple of people that you’ve never even met to dinner?” He sounded tired. “And besides, I’m really surprised that Narelle accepted your invitation. From what I know, they don’t socialise much. What else haven’t you told me?”
It had taken a lot of talking and coaxing to sway Narelle into accepting the dinner invitation. Jacinta had implied, if not actually stated, that it had been Brett’s suggestion and that he would be offended if they didn’t accept. Her tactics had been a little underhand, to say the least, but they had worked. And, true to her word, she had no intention of discussing the disappearance of the first Mrs Edmonds or the ensuing murder trial. Initially, all she wanted was to get an impression of what sort of people they were. Nothing more.
Even after she told Brett all that, he still sounded sceptical. She hung up, vowing to prove him wrong. After all, journalism and integrity didn’t have to be mutually exclusive terms. Quite the contrary, she thought as, unfurling her legs, she moved to the edge of the daybed and stood up.
With the phone still in her hand, she wandered over to the dining table she had commandeered and looked down at the paper and documents laid out in piles around her laptop. It was only a slight exaggeration to say the stack of overdue bills was almost as high as the trial transcript next to it.
Brett had wanted to pay them for her. However, they were bills she had incurred, and she didn’t think it right that he should bail her out. Although she disliked being indebted to anyone, even her lover, she could make exceptions for banks, credit card providers and utility companies. But they wouldn’t wait forever.
Dropping the phone on the table, she reached across and picked up a yellow-covered, spiral-bound notebook. She had filled it with research notes, her thoughts, and any other snippet she thought might be pertinent to the story. Somewhere amongst all the scribblings were the threads of an exclusive. Her big break, if only she could tie them all together. And hopefully without snapping too many along the way.
CHAPTER 8
After kicking off her high heels, Narelle Croswell padded in bare feet across the kitchen’s cool, tiled floor to the refrigerator. Feeling oddly buoyant, she hummed as she grabbed an open bottle of Hunter Valley Chardonnay from the fridge door.
With the wine bottle tucked under her arm and her fingers wrapped around the stem of a wine glass, she made her way to the sliding glass doors that led out to the swimming pool, collecting the phone from its cradle on the way. She had yet to tell Craig what she had done.
Stepping out onto the sandstone paving, she paused, savouring the light breeze as it caressed her flushed skin. The hint of dampness in the air reassured her that the promised cool change was on its way. Early evening sunlight, dappled by the branches of eucalypts, bounced across the tiny ripples on the saltwater pool’s surface. A scene set for entertaining.
Narelle couldn’t remember the last time she had socialised, let alone entertained. But maybe that drought is about to break, she thought. A small smile tweaked at the corners of her mouth as she deposited her load onto the polished aluminium table, poured herself a glass of wine, and settled down in the nearest sling chair. Maybe they could start living like normal people again. Maybe they could stop hiding from the world.
Her first reaction had been to turn down the invitation, but Brett Rhodes’ girlfriend, Jacinta, had been especially persuasive. What did she have to worry about? Brett and she had worked for the same company for nearly three years with no problems. A private dinner party wouldn’t leave them feeling exposed and vulnerable the same way a public restaurant would. It could be fun.
Now all she had to do was sell the idea to Craig. She set her wine glass on the table, picked up the phone and pressed the quick-dial button that would connect her to Craig’s direct line. Although he was due to leave the office shortly, Narelle hoped that by phoning him while he was distracted by his work, he wouldn’t say no outright. He would want to talk about it at home. And that’s exactly what she wanted. Then the drive home would give him time to mull over the proposition. Or at least that was the theory.
He answered on the fifth ring. Keeping her voice light and cheery, she asked how his day had been, making small talk before adding, almost as an afterthought, that they had been invited out to dinner. She tried to make it sound like it was no big deal, that dinner invitations were commonplace for them.
She heard a sharp intake of breath and knew she had f
ailed.
Silence.
“Craig?”
He responded with a sharpness of tone that she hadn’t heard before. “We’ll talk about this when I get home.”
Click. He had hung up.
Stunned, Narelle set down the phone and picked up the wine bottle to refill her glass. She had predicted that he would want to discuss it at home, but nothing had prepared her for how he had said it. It was a side of her husband she had never experienced before. But she had heard something else in his voice. Could fear be behind his uncharacteristic behaviour?
She picked up her wine glass from the table and skolled its contents in two gulps. Craig would be home soon.
CHAPTER 9
Domesticity wasn’t Jacinta’s greatest virtue. The kitchen looked like a hurricane had just passed through it. Dirty pots, bowls and utensils littered the bench. A thick, garlicky pasta sauce bubbled like a hot mud pool on the stove, splattering cooked tomato in all directions. Salad greens sweated inside plastic bags, sharing the sink with empty tomato cans and onion skins.
Wiping her hands on a tea towel, she glanced at the clock, feeling a flutter of panic. Salads still had to be made, lemons squeezed for the dressing, the pasta sauce finished, parmesan cheese grated, the antipasto platter organised…
The list seemed endless, not to mention that she still had to shower and change. If she wasn’t careful, their guests would arrive and she would still be standing there, looking like a victim of the same hurricane that had hit the kitchen.
Fortunately, Brett had volunteered — or rather, had been recruited — to look after drinks and the music, as well as set the table. Mentally crossing those chores off her list, she went in search of the glass dessert bowls she knew she had; she just wasn’t sure where they were stashed. She was quickly remembering why they didn’t entertain often. Brett couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about, but he wasn’t the one running himself ragged.
Somehow she managed to finish the food preparation, clean the kitchen, and check that Brett hadn’t set the table with the forks on the right and the knives on the left.
The doorbell rang just as she was putting the final touches to her makeup. She paused, relaxing on hearing voices she recognised. Patrick and Shauna were punctual, as always. That should make it a little less stiff when Craig and Narelle arrived. If they arrived. Narelle had confirmed with Brett on Thursday, but who was to say they hadn’t changed their minds since then.
The doorbell rang again, filling Jacinta with trepidation this time. Whose bright idea was it to invite a man accused of his wife’s murder and his new wife to dinner? What if they saw straight through her? What if she unintentionally stared at them? Or worse, avoided eye contact? What if she had one too many glasses of wine and blurted out something she shouldn’t? The more she thought about it, the more perilous it seemed.
After checking herself one last time in the mirror, she fixed what she hoped was a welcoming smile to her face and went to meet her guests. As she shut the bedroom door behind her, she heard laughter and the clink of glasses coming from the other end of the house. A good start.
She found everyone congregated in the brick-paved courtyard off the living room, drinks in hand, being entertained by one of Patrick’s infamous tall tales. Jacinta smiled to herself. As long as he was the centre of attention, he was happy. He could be guaranteed to liven up any party. So far, so good.
Long-legged Shauna stood beside her sturdier red-haired fiancé, rattling the ice cubes in her glass and giving a good impression that she had heard it all before. And more than once, too.
Brett and their other two visitors had their backs to her, but all turned in unison when Patrick, without missing a beat in his performance, blew her a theatrical kiss. Now she was the centre of attention.
Smiling sweetly, she waited for Brett to make the introductions. Narelle Croswell, with her mass of brunette curls and model looks, was a marked contrast to her relatively plain, fair-haired sister. The only photos of Kirsty Edmonds that Jacinta had seen were cropped images posted on various websites. Still, the sisters looked so different that it was hard to imagine they shared the same genes.
Next to her, scuffing his feet on the ground, Craig Edmonds looked much less at ease than his wife. He had aged considerably since the photos plastered all over the Internet had been taken. His face had thinned and his dark hair was flecked liberally with grey. The moustache was gone and he wore rimless glasses. Despite the ageing, he was still an attractive man, and Narelle and he made a striking couple. They certainly didn’t look evil.
But what did evil look like? If Grace Kevron was to be believed, she had just shaken the hands of two cold-blooded murderers.
Brett kept casting her sidelong glances and she kept pretending she didn’t see them. They had talked in depth about what subjects were off limits and what weren’t, but from the looks he was giving her, he wasn’t taking anything for granted. Pouring a glass of Evans & Tate’s Sparkling Pinot Noir Chardonnay, he moved to stand directly in front of her, only releasing the champagne flute to her fingers when he held her gaze. It was the telepathic equivalent of a stern reminder.
After a few minutes of idle chitchat, she headed inside to the kitchen. She had originally intended to make the dinner a formal, sit-down affair in the dining room, but since the evening was so balmy and everyone seemed to be comfortable outside, she decided to take the meal to them. First course, anyway.
As she passed through the lounge room, Kate Ceberano’s soulful voice reflected her thoughts: “Will you still love me tomorrow? Tonight with words unspoken…” If she kept to her promise not to start asking questions of Craig and Narelle, there would be no reason for Brett not to love her tomorrow. She knew she had nothing to worry about, as long as she stuck to her role of the perfect Stepford wife.
Hoping she was better at acting than cooking, she started removing the lids from the plastic containers of olives, semi-dried tomatoes and marinated eggplant she had bought that morning. Although she had bravely attempted to grill the eggplant slices, they had come out looking like charred bits of dish sponge. What was more, they tasted worse than they looked.
While Jacinta was in the middle of arranging curled, wafer-thin slices of prosciutto and coppa on the platter, Shauna turned up with the wine bottle, offering both a refill and assistance. Or, in Jacinta’s case, salvation.
“Narelle and Craig seem like a nice couple. How do you know them?” Shauna popped a black chilli olive into her mouth.
Jacinta hesitated. “Ummm… Brett works with Narelle at Woodridge.” She quickly changed the subject, delegating Shauna the task of setting the outside table.
By the time she had carried the antipasto platter, a floury ciabatta loaf and a bread knife out to the courtyard, Katie Melua’s bluesy jazz voice was flowing from the stereo speakers. The light, lemony scent of the citronella lamps wafted through the air.
With the aid of a couple of bottles of an excellent King Valley Riesling, the party had soon devoured the first course, leaving little more than crumbs and olive pits. Any tensions that might have been there dissolved as the couples laughed and talked. Even Jacinta had started to relax. So, when Craig suddenly asked her what she did for a living, she was thrown off balance for a second.
Brett quickly stepped in, filling the void. “Jacinta is, as they say, between jobs right now. Unfortunately,” he dropped his lower lip in an exaggerated pout, “my idea that perhaps she could devote all her new-found free time to being my slave didn’t work out.”
The original question was soon lost in the ensuing laughter. Breathing a silent sigh of relief, Jacinta collected the dirty plates, excused herself and headed back inside.
No sooner had she started stacking the plates in the dishwasher than she heard the click-clack of high heels on the slate behind her. She turned, expecting to see Shauna again, and almost dropped the plate in her hand when she saw Narelle standing there instead, a couple of empty glasses in her hands.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Jacinta smiled at her. “No problem. I just didn’t see you, that’s all.” She reached for the glasses, adding a “thanks” as she placed them in the dishwasher.
Like Shauna had earlier, Narelle then offered to help. Had they arranged to take turns, or had it just turned out that way? Jacinta’s first thought was to politely decline and send Narelle straight back to the party, but then a little voice in her head piped up. When else would she get the chance to talk one on one with Narelle? Even though she couldn’t ask the hard-hitting questions she would dearly have liked to, there was no reason she couldn’t get to know her better.
“Thanks,” she said, gesturing toward the stove. “What are your sauce-stirring skills like?”
Initially, the conversation between the two women was a little stilted, but Jacinta soon found herself warming to Narelle. She came across as such a genuine and likeable person that Jacinta had difficultly imagining how she could possibly have been involved in something criminal or sordid. But did first impressions really count?
While she waited for the pot of salted water to come to the boil for the ravioli, she put the finishing touches to the salad, adding a few leaves of fresh basil from her herb garden. Everything was running like clockwork. She couldn’t have planned it better if she’d tried.
She was starting to feel quite smug, but then Narelle caught her off-guard and asked her what sort of work she did when she wasn’t being a domestic goddess.
Jacinta felt like a kangaroo caught in the glare of headlights, rooted to the spot and not knowing in what direction to flee. She blushed, a rapid surge of heat radiating up her face. There was no hiding it.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Narelle said, running the words together in her rush to apologise.
Unable to look Narelle in the eye, Jacinta stared down at her feet, frantically trying to come up with some response that wasn’t going to push her even further into the corner.