by Vicki Tyley
She forced a laugh. “You name it, I’ve done it.” She wasn’t lying. Backpacking around the world in her early twenties meant finding work wherever she could. “Everything from waitressing to fruit-picking to working in a bank.” She didn’t mention her stint as a deckhand on a fishing trawler off Iceland, or her time spent as a holiday rep in Rhodes. From experience, she knew that would only invite more questions.
Thankfully, Narelle, perceptive enough to sense Jacinta’s reticence, didn’t press the issue. Or perhaps it was because they both had something to hide.
CHAPTER 10
The pounding in her head grew louder. Without opening her eyes, Narelle rolled onto her back and flung her arm out to the side. The bed beside her, though warm, was empty.
The peal of the doorbell ricocheted through the house, embedding what felt like sharp darts behind her eyes. She groaned, lying as still as possible, waiting for the pain to subside. It didn’t make any sense. Had she really had that much to drink?
Then it all started coming back to her. The champagne, the wine, the liqueurs… She had been so wired in, she hadn’t realised how much she’d had to drink. Why hadn’t Craig tried to stop her? She groaned again, remembering. He had, but she’d brushed him off as a party pooper. Now she was paying for it.
Oh, God, she suddenly thought, did I make a complete fool of myself? Way to go, Narelle. She felt embarrassed and peeved with herself all at the same time. What must they think of me?
The doorbell rang again, and before the chime had petered out, it was pushed again and again in rapid succession. She pulled the bedclothes up over her head, her face contorting against the resulting off-key heavy metal jangle.
Cotton sheets proved a poor sound barrier. Hearing a woman’s strident tones, she yanked the sheets off her head. She couldn’t quite make out the words, but there was no mistaking the voice. Her chest felt like it was clamped in a giant vice, the air in her lungs being squeezed out.
She scrambled out of bed, her brain like liquid sloshing from side to side in her skull as she stumbled from the bedroom.
Craig, motionless and mute, stood about two metres back from the front door, his fists tightly clenched by his sides. He didn’t turn as she approached, but she didn’t need to see his face to know how he must be feeling.
He flinched as she reached out and touched his naked back with her fingertips. She paused, opening and closing her hand before dropping it back to her side.
“Craig,” she whispered. Focused solely on the door, he either hadn’t heard or chose not to hear her.
“You depraved, sick bastard! You killed your wife and then you married her sister.” Grace Kevron’s voice rose to a screech. “You should both be rotting in hell for what you did to Kirsty. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll make sure you pay.”
Narelle grabbed Craig’s forearm, trying to draw him away. He shook her off and moved toward the door.
“We have nothing to say to you. If you don’t leave, I’m going to call the police.” His voice sounded remarkably calm, but both fists twitched as if each hand was kneading a stress ball.
“And what will they do? Lock me up? You know I’m not the criminal here, don’t you?” Mocking laughter followed.
Narelle tried again to pull Craig away from the door. She looped her arm through his, feeling the tremor in his body.
“Restraining order!” Craig shouted at the door as if the idea had suddenly occurred to him. “I’m going to take out a restraining order against you if you don’t leave my property this instant.”
Grace laughed again, before dropping her voice to a hate-filled snarl. “Perhaps if Kirsty had taken out a restraining order against you two, she would still be alive. You haven’t heard the last of me. Believe me, you will pay for what you did.”
CHAPTER 11
Jacinta tossed the morning newspaper onto the daybed and headed to the kitchen to make coffee. She passed the dining table, strewn with paperwork and once again reclaimed as her work desk.
She still couldn’t quite believe how well Saturday night’s dinner party had gone. Even cynical Brett had grudgingly admitted to enjoying himself. But what had she achieved, besides proving to herself that you didn’t have to be a gourmet chef to produce a tasty meal for six?
In her mind, she had achieved a lot. At the beginning of the night, Narelle had been as reserved as her husband, but a few glasses of wine had soon unleashed a bubbly, outgoing woman who possessed a wicked sense of humour. She’d had Jacinta in stitches, laughing so much that tears ran down her face.
Although she still wasn’t quite sure about Craig, she had begun to think that she and Narelle could be good friends. Craig Edmonds and Narelle Croswell were no longer just impersonal names in print; they were real people. People with feelings. People with emotions. And yes, perhaps, people with secrets. But what right did she have to meddle in someone else’s life?
After that night, she had given a great deal of thought to her career direction. When she looked inside herself, she didn’t see the ruthlessness and hunger needed to make it in the cut-and-thrust world of investigative journalism. Nor was she prepared to ride roughshod over people’s lives, regardless of what they had or hadn’t been accused of.
The clincher, though, was her bank balance. Or lack thereof. She had been forced to transfer money from her credit card to her cheque account just to pay her living expenses. What she needed was a job with a regular pay packet, and fast.
As hard a decision as it was, she knew Brett, for one, would be ecstatic when she told him. Starting from today, she was no longer an investigative journalist ready to expose the truth and wow the world, but a job searcher prepared to compromise for almost any job — except selling her body — she could get. She truly believed she had made the right decision. So why did she feel so flat and uninspired?
She had finished making coffee and was carrying it through to the dining room to make a start on the employment pages when the phone rang. Maybe it was news that a previously unheard of great-aunt she didn’t know she’d had died and left her a fortune.
Instead it was good news of a different kind; the kind where some effort would be required on her part. Anthea Sutton, her old boss and the editor of The Acacia Tribune, was calling to let her know that one of the newspaper’s regular advertisers, Alvico Media, was looking for a copywriter. Anthea had recommended Jacinta.
A regular job with regular money. Jacinta didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Although she would still have to apply for the position, Anthea’s recommendation would certainly go a long way.
With nothing more to do until Anthea emailed through all the details, she decided to read the newspaper. She set the cooling mug of coffee on the windowsill, hooking one leg under the other as she sat down and spread the newspaper out flat on the daybed in front of her.
As usual, the front page was full of doom and gloom. Interest rates were set to rise. ‘Health costs us an arm and a leg’ proclaimed another headline, which certainly wasn’t news to Jacinta. A teenage boy behind the wheel of a stolen car had managed to evade police, only to later wrap the car around a power pole, killing himself and all three of his young passengers. Even the photo of convicted terrorist Abu Bakar Bashir flashing a toothy smile from centre page was nothing to feel good about.
Sipping her coffee, she turned the page.
ACCUSED WIFE-KILLER WEDS VICTIM’S SISTER.
For a split second, time stood still, her mug frozen mid-air. She blinked, hoping her eyes had deceived her. Then she read the headline again.
ACCUSED WIFE-KILLER WEDS VICTIM’S SISTER.
The day that had started out so promisingly came crashing down around her. In slow motion she reached out to the side and placed her coffee back on the windowsill. Transfixed by the words, she sat staring at the article. How was this possible? A pure coincidence?
Problem was, she didn’t believe in coincidences.
Leaning forward, she gripped the sides of the newspaper in both
hands and lifted it up to her face, as if somehow that would make the words easier to comprehend.
She took a deep breath and started reading the smaller type under the heading, feeling sicker by the second. The writer, although careful to skirt any outright libellous statements, implied that the justice system had failed in its duty to bring Craig Edmonds and Narelle Croswell to account for their part in the murder of Kirsty Olive Edmonds. Craig and Narelle’s nuptials had been cleverly used to throw even more suspicion their way. The article’s only redeeming feature — from the Edmonds’ point of view, anyway — was that it wasn’t accompanied by a picture.
How was she going to explain it to Brett? How was she going to make him believe that she wasn’t responsible? He wasn’t one for coincidences either. The fact that it hadn’t been published under her byline wouldn’t be proof enough for him. After all, she had published under pseudonyms before.
Someone somewhere had to have leaked that information about the wedding to the newspaper. Why else, months after the event, would the news suddenly have come to light?
Then the image of Grace Kevron’s shocked face popped into her head. Had Grace, looking for some sort of vengeance, alerted the press?
With a heavy, sinking feeling, Jacinta realised that she was responsible, indirectly if not directly, for thrusting the Edmonds case back into the limelight. But wasn’t that what she had wanted? Wasn’t that the aim of all the research? If she were honest with herself, she would have to say yes. In the beginning, anyway.
Since then she had come to her senses, understanding that no good could come from playing with other people’s lives and stirring up old emotions. Her conscience had stopped her, but had it already been too late by then? She had unwittingly opened a Pandora’s box. The question was, could she close it again, or was the damage already done?
Shoving aside the newspaper, she leapt from the daybed, making straight for the phone. Halfway across the room, she stopped. She hadn’t thought it through. What was she going to say to Narelle? Shouldn’t her first step be to confront Grace and confirm her assumptions? Or maybe she should talk to Brett first. Standing there with her face buried in her palms, she wished she could turn back the clock.
Her hands were shaking by the time she picked up the phone. Her first call had to be to Narelle. It would be better coming from someone she knew, even if not that well, than reading about it in the newspaper. The old saying about ‘shutting the gate after the horse has bolted’ came to mind as she waited for the call to connect.
A snooty-sounding woman on the switchboard answered, informing her that Narelle was on sick leave. And no, she didn’t know when she was expected back. Could someone else help?
I very much doubt it, thought Jacinta as she hung up the phone.
CHAPTER 12
Jacinta hung her head. How many ways were there to say ‘I told you so’? Brett was up to number ten, each louder and more agitated than the last.
“Okay, okay, okay! I get the message. I should’ve listened to you. But I swear I did not write that article. You have to believe me.”
“Believe you?” Brett’s nostrils flared. “Oh, yes, I always believe you. Believe you when you tell me that it’s all just one big coincidence. Believe you when you tell me this wasn’t meant to happen. Believe you when you tell me you love me. Believe you when…” His voice trailed off. “Jacinta, I don’t know what to believe any more.”
“Believe what you want, then,” she spat, regretting the words the instant they left her mouth.
Brett sighed, not just his shoulders but his whole demeanour sagging as he turned and walked away from her. She watched his retreating back, feeling like a stranger in her own body. Desperate to undo any wrongs, real or imagined, she wanted to stop him and tell him how sorry she was. Instead all she could do was sit numbly by.
The pillow on the daybed where Brett had slept last night still held the indentation of his head. She gathered up the quilt, hugging it to her chest as she closed her eyes and inhaled Brett’s musky scent. Tears brimmed in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks unchecked as she rocked back and forth on the end of the daybed.
The sound of drawers and cupboards being opened and slammed shut from the far end of the house quickly brought her back to her senses. Now was no time to be feeling sorry for herself.
She entered the bedroom just in time to see Brett throw the contents of his sock basket into his suitcase.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Brett said, tossing a bundle of shirts on the haphazardly heaped mountain of clothes on the bed.
“You can’t leave. Not like this.”
“Why not? You do as you damned well please, so why can’t I? No one dares get in the way of the world-wise Jacinta Deller lest they get trampled, do they?”
Ouch!
Biting her tongue, she swallowed hard, trying to rein in the welter of conflicting emotions. Couldn’t he understand that she had only been trying to do her job as a journalist? Besides, it was the information he had given her that had started it all. Then it clicked. He wasn’t only angry with her, he was angry with himself for telling her about the Edmonds case in the first place.
Still smarting from his outburst, but now at least with a modicum of understanding as to why, she tried reasoning with him. However, he wasn’t in the mood to be reasonable and her very presence seemed to be more than enough to antagonise him.
Momentarily defeated and with no energy left to continue the pointless battling, she left Brett jamming clothes into the open suitcase on the bed.
A short time later, she heard the front door close, followed soon after by the deep-throated V8 rumble of Brett’s 1966 Chevrolet Impala as he backed out of the driveway.
The house felt strangely empty, as if all the life had been sucked out of it, leaving her sitting in a vacuum. In the heat of the moment they had both said things they hadn’t meant but that, nevertheless, had cut deeply. Could they ever go back to what they had before all this happened?
Jacinta shook her head. Her world had come to an end, and the only person she could blame was herself. She had been taking risks all her life but none had backfired as spectacularly as this one. But life, she reassured herself, was full of gambles. Where would she be if she had always played it safe?
The picture-perfect scene of a husband and brood of kids standing in front of a weatherboard cottage, complete with white picket fence, flashed through her mind. She shuddered, the mere thought incomprehensible.
Later, perhaps; but for now, she was in charge of her own life and regardless of the mistakes she made along the way, she had to live it as she saw fit. Logic was all very well, but logic couldn’t override her feelings for Brett. It had taken him walking out on her to make her see what her single-mindedness had cost her.
She felt so alone, and so very tired. Craving the respite sleep would bring, she lay down, resting her head in the same hollow where Brett’s had once been, and pulled the quilt up over her body.
For what seemed like hours, she lay motionless with eyes closed, sleep evading her. Brett’s words played over and over in her mind. Did she always put herself first, regardless of the impact on others? She had always thought of herself as ambitious, but was it possible she had crossed the threshold into mercenariness without realising it?
Opening her eyes, she threw the quilt off and sat upright.
No, damn it! Brett was wrong. Hadn’t she made the decision to drop the story for the sake of everyone involved? If only he had let her explain, instead of constantly talking over the top of her.
She conceded she was no angel, but everyone made mistakes, even him. At least she had made an effort to understand when he confessed to having a one-night stand while in Sydney, attending an IT conference. In her eyes, infidelity was a far greater wrongdoing than passing on information that was on public record anyway. Of course, that didn’t excuse her own behaviour.
Intent on taking control rathe
r than playing the poor, misjudged victim, she abandoned the refuge of the daybed and headed for the bedroom to get changed. The oversized men’s blue-and-white striped pyjama top she wore had to go.
She was standing in the walk-in-robe, contemplating what to wear, when she heard her mobile ringing. For a moment, she considered ignoring it and letting it divert to voicemail. However, curiosity and the possibility that it might be Brett had her sprinting for the dining room.
Without time to check the caller display, she snatched the still-ringing phone from the table, answering it with a breathless “hello”.
“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
The voice was familiar, yet unfamiliar. She clamped the phone to her ear, her breathing slowly returning to normal. “Grace, is that you?”
“At your service,” cackled Grace. “Had to thank you for that snippet of news…” She laughed again. “Talking about news, read the newspaper today?”
Forget ghost; think witch. “Grace, do you really think that was the wisest thing to do?”
“They deserve everything that’s coming their way, and more,” Grace retorted, her voice hardening. “You might like to know I also called on the newly-weds.”
Jacinta held her breath, hoping she really hadn’t heard what she thought she had.
“For some reason, they weren’t pleased to see me. Craig, the bastard, even threatened to call the police. What a fucking hypocrite. Can you believe that?”
Yes, she could believe that. The venom in Grace’s voice had Jacinta more than grateful that the demented woman wasn’t there in person.
There were mistakes, and then there were mistakes. If contacting Grace Kevron hadn’t been bad enough, telling her about the wedding had been disastrous. Surely, if she had been astute enough, she would have realised that Grace still hadn’t come to terms with losing her best friend. Maybe Brett was right after all. Maybe her zealousness was her undoing.