by Vicki Tyley
Her suggestion to Grace that perhaps she should leave the Edmonds to the law was met with more derision and contempt. Grace then started screaming about blood, bodies, vengeance and the devil, scaring the hell out of Jacinta.
Could grief do that to a person? The woman clearly needed psychiatric help of some kind. Jacinta was way out of her depth and could do nothing except wait and hope that the tirade would eventually stop.
At least Grace didn’t know where she lived…
CHAPTER 13
Narelle stared blankly at the phone. Although she remembered writing down Jacinta Deller’s phone number, she couldn’t remember where. Closing her eyes, she tried to picture the sequence of events: answering the phone, scribbling the details of the dinner invitation on the corner of her deskpad, hanging up, reaching into her…
Snapping her fingers, she opened her eyes and went in search of her black handbag. Somewhere in the depths of it was her seldom-used pocket diary, with all the information from the deskpad neatly transcribed into it.
She had been remiss in not thanking Jacinta and Brett for Saturday night sooner, but her good intentions had been lost in the week’s dramas. Grace Kevron’s Sunday morning visit had left both Craig and Narelle shell-shocked. What had suddenly awakened the beast, as Narelle liked to think of Grace, after so many years?
The Edmonds hadn’t recovered from that attack when another bomb exploded in their faces. Somehow, the press had found out about their marriage, raking up what Narelle thought was old and buried and mixing it with the new. She couldn’t understand what anybody had to gain from the seemingly unprovoked attack. None of it made any sense. How much longer would they have to live with the malicious insinuations?
Wasn’t it enough that she had lost her only sister? Wasn’t it enough that her parents had disowned her because of her involvement with her sister’s husband? Wasn’t it enough that she would always carry the guilt of the affair? Wasn’t it enough that she had been implicated in her sister’s disappearance and murder?
Apparently not.
Narelle believed in Craig. She couldn’t have married him if she hadn’t. She had no answers to what had happened that fateful night. All she was certain of was that Craig could not have killed Kirsty. Drunk and passed out on the bed, a full-scale riot could have been happening in the house and he wouldn’t have known anything about it. Anything could have happened.
She was sick of living life as a social hermit, sick of looking over her shoulder. Sick of being sick, she thought suddenly, as a new bout of nausea had her running for the bathroom. Since Sunday, she had been battling an upset stomach, spending more time with her head hung over the toilet bowl than not. Craig hadn’t been sick and it didn’t feel like food poisoning, so she blamed it on stress.
Some time later, feeling drained and exhausted, she resurfaced from the bathroom. Like a little girl lost, she stood in the doorway, looking left, then right. Was stress playing havoc with her memory as well? What had she been doing? What day was it?
She wandered around the house, careful to avoid the windows. Most of the reporters and photographers who had camped out on the front verge earlier in the week had given up, but a few determined stragglers remained. She had no idea what they expected to achieve, and didn’t much care.
Gazing at the phone, she had a sudden sense of déjà vu, finally recalling that she had been in the middle of looking for Jacinta’s phone number when her stomach had had other ideas. With a quiet sigh, she picked up the phone and headed to the bedroom.
Despite overindulging, she had really enjoyed the dinner party. Both the food and the company. Jacinta and she had clicked immediately, nattering away like old girlfriends. Narelle would’ve relished the chance to get to know her better. As it was, Jacinta must have thought it extremely rude of her not to have contacted her already. Sure, she had a good excuse, but how was Jacinta to know that?
Narelle dug out her pocket diary from the bottom of her handbag, sat on the edge of the bed and flicked through blank page after blank page until she came to last Saturday’s date. Her round handwriting, detailing time, address and phone numbers, spilled over into Sunday.
Mentally rehearsing what she was going to say, she dialled Jacinta and Brett’s home phone number. She forced a smile, hoping to portray a lightness she didn’t feel. It felt strained and unnatural. The phone rang seven times, then she heard a click, followed by Jacinta’s cheery tones asking her to leave a message. Narelle hesitated, reluctant to talk to a machine.
“Umm… Jacinta, it’s Narelle Cros—”
“Hold on a sec.” After a series of clicks and squeals, all went quiet. “Sorry about that. I wasn’t fast enough getting to the phone.”
Narelle stammered out a few disjointed words, her carefully rehearsed little speech of thanks in tatters.
“Narelle.” Jacinta paused. “Is everything okay?”
If the concern in Jacinta’s voice wasn’t enough, asking her that question was like turning on a tap.
Narelle opened her mouth to speak, but what came out sounded something like a cross between a loud hiccup and a thwarted cough. Uncontrollable, choking sobs followed.
As mortified as she was, there was nothing she could do to stop it. Struggling to regain her composure, she dropped the phone onto the bed next to her, and picked up her pillow. Like some never-ending battle, each time she thought she’d won and was back in control, she would start bawling again. What was wrong with her? Over the years she’d become an expert at keeping her emotions in check, so what had changed?
After what seemed like an eternity, her sobs weakened to a low snivel. The pillow she had used to smother her blubbering was sodden. Releasing it into her lap, she took a deep breath, holding it for a count of ten before slowly exhaling.
The sight of the neglected phone face-down on the quilt almost set her off again. She swallowed and picked up the phone, praying that all she would hear was a disconnected tone. Before it reached her ear, she heard Jacinta’s anxious voice, frantically calling her name.
Narelle bit down on her lip, tasting blood. Somehow she managed to speak, blurting out a garbled apology. Jacinta brushed aside the apology, clearly at that moment more concerned with Narelle’s welfare than anything else. Before she knew it, Narelle was giving Jacinta her address.
Knowing that Jacinta would be there shortly at least gave Narelle the impetus she needed to pull herself together. Breaking down over the phone had been bad enough. In person, it could only be more humiliating.
She allowed herself a few minutes for some yoga stretching and deep breathing, feeling the benefits almost immediately. Cold water splashed on her face further revived both body and soul.
Running her fingers through her hair, she pushed and poked wayward curls into position. A touch of lip-gloss added some colour to her otherwise washed-out face. She tried smiling at the sad face in the mirror, but it didn’t reciprocate. She tried again. The corners of the lips lifted slightly but the eyes remained impassive.
Even though she had been expecting it, she jumped when the doorbell rang. With more purposefulness than she felt, she turned and strode to the front door. Remembering at the last moment to smile, she flung the door open.
Her face crumpled. She had seen enough of police detectives over the years to recognise them when she saw them. The first officer, standing about a metre back from the doorstep, was a tall woman in her mid to late thirties, her fair hair pulled back in a ponytail. Just to her left and slightly back stood her partner, a clean-shaven, solidly built man in his twenties. Both wore suits, the male detective looking distinctly uncomfortable in his.
She would have slammed the door in their faces if the woman hadn’t already put her foot in the doorway.
“Police,” said the woman, holding up her identification badge. Introducing herself as Detective Sergeant Renee White and her partner as Detective Constable Mark Fratta, she then asked to come in.
Even though Narelle knew she had every right to
refuse them entry, she didn’t have the energy to fight. She hadn’t considered why the police might be there. In her experience, police equated to endless accusations and questioning.
Feeling outnumbered and vulnerable, she stepped back from the door, wondering if she should be calling a lawyer. At any other time, she would have wanted Craig by her side, but his state of mind was already fragile enough.
Sunday’s visit from Grace had been the trigger, but Tuesday’s newspaper article compounded it. She desperately wanted to help him but every time she tried, he just withdrew further. He had become remote, to the extent of sleeping in the guest room. Or not sleeping.
At night, alone in their bed, she would lie awake, listening to her husband prowl around the house. She would hear the clink of glass against glass and know that he was seeking solace in the bottom of a bottle. It frightened her.
Being confronted by police officers, whatever their reason for being there, would bring it all back, perhaps pushing him over the edge. She couldn’t risk that. She could, and would, deal with it on her own.
As she turned to close the door, she heard raised voices. She kept her body shielded by the door and peered out. Standing on the footpath, dwarfed by a posse of reporters, was Jacinta, slapping her hands at the air like she was trying to shoo off a couple of pesky flies.
But the reporters, like flies, weren’t about to be deterred. It wouldn’t matter what Jacinta did, they weren’t leaving. Quite the contrary.
The visit by the police and then Jacinta seemed to have revved up their interest somewhat. Undaunted by Jacinta’s accusations of trespassing, the cameras followed her every movement, microphones poised to catch every sound.
It wasn’t until Jacinta’s foot left the top step that Narelle managed to catch her attention. Jacinta’s eyes widened, but she said nothing as Narelle reached out, hooked her arm and pulled her through the narrow opening of the door.
CHAPTER 14
Jacinta rubbed her arm, surprised at the intensity of Narelle’s grip. Narelle stood barefoot in front of her, her skin as pale and translucent as the white, loose-woven shirt she wore. Almost as if the vivid scarlet and yellow hues of the close to mural-sized abstract painting on the wall behind her had sucked all the colour from her. She looked ill.
The muffled sound of a male voice coming from somewhere in the depths of the house startled Jacinta. From the phone call, she had expected Narelle to be home alone. Was Craig at home, too? If so, why wasn’t he comforting his wife?
Narelle answered Jacinta’s unspoken questions with a barely audible whisper: “Police.”
Jacinta’s mind went into overdrive. What would the police be doing calling on Narelle? Her first thought was that they were delivering bad news. Had someone been seriously injured — or worse, died? Was it Craig? Was it something to do with Grace Kevron? Had it anything to do with the old murder case?
Her thoughts were cut short when Narelle headed up the hall, signalling for Jacinta to follow. As they passed the airy kitchen and meals area, drawing closer to the northern end of the house, a softer feminine voice joined the male’s.
The open cathedral-ceiling space Jacinta stepped down into took her breath away. Her whole home could have fitted into the room without a squeeze. The polished timber floors, the plush rugs, the buff leather couches and armchairs all exuded wealth and taste. An eclectic mix of artworks, undoubtedly originals, adorned the walls. Bright sunlight streamed in through the expanse of glass overlooking the swimming pool.
Awestruck, she wondered if this was Narelle’s or Craig’s influence at work. But then it suddenly occurred to her that she was standing in a crime scene, albeit an old one.
Jolted back to reality, she shook her head and blinked. On the far side of the room she saw, rather than heard, Narelle offering a seat to a tall, fair-haired woman and a younger, stocky man, who Jacinta presumed were police detectives. As curious as she was, she hung back, not wanting to intrude.
The detectives shifted in their seats, looking as uncomfortable as Narelle, who was perched awkwardly on the couch opposite with her knees together and ankles splayed. Her eyes darted left and right, anywhere but directly at the officers. Then her gaze caught Jacinta’s. Narelle’s eyes widened, her hand flying to her mouth as if Jacinta had suddenly materialised from out of nowhere.
Eventually, recognition dawned in Narelle’s eyes. She beckoned, frantically patting the seat beside her. Jacinta hesitated, unsure of what she should be doing. It felt like she had walked onto a film set in the middle of a take and forgotten her lines. What was her role supposed to be?
Taking a deep breath, she moved across the room to join Narelle. A long, narrow, blue gum coffee table acted as a barrier between the police and Narelle. As Jacinta sank down onto the couch next to her, she glanced across at the detectives’ faces. Their expressions portrayed nothing, not even the slightest impatience at being kept waiting.
Narelle didn’t introduce Jacinta to the officers, nor did they seem particularly interested in her presence, their focus firmly centred on Narelle.
The female detective spoke first, her voice low. “Ms Croswell,” she said, sitting forward in her seat and pulling a plastic bag from her jacket pocket, “do you recognise this at all?” She slid the bag across the coffee table toward Narelle.
For a few moments Narelle just stared at the bag, seemingly unable to bring herself to pick it up. “What is it?” she asked in a hoarse whisper. She began to mangle the ball of scrunched-up tissues in her hands.
Even though the question was directed at the female, it was the male officer who spoke. “When your sister, Kirsty…” He paused for a fraction of a second, as if weighing his words, before continuing, “…disappeared, you gave us a description of a gold cross that she always wore.”
Narelle had visibly stiffened at the mention of her sister, but still made no move to examine the bag.
The detective continued, “Would you mind looking at this,” he picked up the bag from the table and tried to hand it to her, “and telling us if this is like the one Kirsty owned.”
Narelle’s hand trembled when she finally reached out and took the bag from his fingers. Her breathing laboured, she manoeuvred the cross into the corner of the sealed evidence bag. Laying it flat on her palm, she stared at the small, tarnished gold cross, a deep-blue sapphire set in its centre. She stopped breathing.
All eyes were on Narelle. The heightening tension hung like a pall over them. No one moved.
Sandwiching the bag between her palms, Narelle closed her eyes tight, bringing her hands up under her chin in a silent prayer. No one else moved.
The male detective cleared his throat, breaking the spell.
Narelle’s eyes popped open, giving her the wide-eyed, vacant look of a child’s doll. And then, without warning, she lurched from the couch. The plastic bag containing the cross tumbled to the floor. With one hand covering her mouth and the other clutching her stomach, she fled the room.
The detectives looked sideways at each other before turning their attention to Jacinta. If they were looking for an explanation, they were definitely looking in the wrong place. Jacinta was as much in the dark as they were. Regardless, she didn’t need to be Einstein to work out that Narelle was ill.
Jacinta stood up, intending to go after Narelle, but stopped when she heard the young male detective muttering under his breath. His partner shot him a reproving glance, but by then it was too late. It had taken less than a second for his words to register.
Outraged, Jacinta turned on him, lashing out at him for his snide remark. ‘Murderer’s whore’ or ‘murderous whore’, she wasn’t sure which; it didn’t matter. And even though she knew the words weren’t intended for her ears, they were uncalled for and totally unprofessional coming from a police officer.
She had jumped to Narelle’s defence, not because she believed in her innocence, but because she felt strongly that everyone deserved a fair go. Any personal prejudices the detective had should have
been left at home. After all, Narelle was the victim’s sister, and not, as far as Jacinta knew, a suspect.
Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the senior detective. The female officer’s mouth was moving, but if she had spoken, Jacinta hadn’t heard her. Too angry by this time to bother with niceties, Jacinta reached down and grabbed the evidence bag from the floor, thrusting it into the startled woman’s hands before storming off to tend to Narelle.
It wasn’t until she reached the kitchen that it occurred to her she was in a strange house, with no idea where Narelle might be. Except for the strident whispers of the police in the living room, the house was silent.
She sighed, consoling herself with the flippant thought that at least she knew her way to the front door. If all else failed, she could make a run for it.
A toilet flushed.
Jacinta started walking in the general direction of the noise, feeling like a prowler casing the house as she checked each room she passed. She was zeroing in on a closed door at the end of the hall when it opened. Narelle emerged from the doorway, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and looking paler than she had before, if that was possible. Her hairline was damp, a couple of wet curls clinging to her cheek.
Narelle smiled weakly at Jacinta. “Just a stomach bug,” she said, patting her flat stomach. Then, lowering her voice to a whisper, she asked, “Are they still here?”
Jacinta nodded. “Do you want me to tell them you’re too sick to see them?”
Narelle shook her head wearily. “No, if it’s not today, it’ll be another time. Might as well get it over with.”
“Would you prefer me to leave?”
Perhaps Narelle’s reluctance to speak to the police came from having an outsider present.
“No.” The word echoed in the hall. Narelle leaned closer to Jacinta, dropping her voice. “I mean, please don’t go; I could do with a friend about now.” Pausing briefly, she added, “That’s only if you want to, of course.”