by Vicki Tyley
Her hands felt dirty and clammy. Although desperate to wash them with soap under running water, she trailed Grace out to the garage, wiping her hands against each other as she went. Squeezing past the wing mirror on Grace’s white Hyundai hatchback, she then followed her down the side of the single car garage to a suitcase and two cardboard cartons stacked atop the old wooden trunk.
Grace frowned. “You say you found it in this trunk?”
Margaret nodded.
“Tell me if I have this right. You moved the suitcase and the boxes, opened the trunk, saw the gun, took it out, closed the trunk again, and then lifted the suitcase and boxes back onto it?”
Margaret nodded again.
“Why?”
“I wanted to leave it as I found it,” Margaret said, not mentioning that at the time she hadn’t known what she was going to do with the revolver.
Grace sighed. “Except for the newspaper sticking out,” she said, lifting the uppermost box and setting it on the concrete between the car and the trunk. She then sat the next box on top of it, before balancing the empty suitcase on that. “You sure went to a lot of trouble for a scrap of paper, Mum.”
Margaret made no comment, continuing to watch as Grace wrestled with the trunk’s ancient latches. With one last grunt, Grace hefted the solid wooden lid upright.
“What the…” Grace gasped and, reaching in, pulled out a glossy black wig, dangling it in front of her mother. “What’s this doing in here?”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Well, it’s not mine.”
“Are you sure, Gracie?” Margaret didn’t recall amnesia being a schizophrenia symptom.
Grace snorted. “Of course I’m bloody sure. What would I want with a black wig?” She tossed the hairy clump at Margaret before turning her attention back to the contents of the trunk. “And what the hell is all this crap? Citrus Couriers?” She held up two white, limp circles the size of large dinner plates, with bold orange borders and print. “Ever heard of them? I haven’t.”
The ‘Citrus’ part of the name meant nothing to Margaret, but something about a courier and the orange colour nagged at the back of her mind. Something she had seen. Something she had heard.
Then she remembered. She had been watching the news on television while Grace soaked in the bath. A man had been shot outside his home and police were appealing for information about a white courier van with orange signage that had been seen in the vicinity. The driver was thought to have long, dark hair.
Margaret shook her head, her fingers twisting the long synthetic hairs in her hands. Refusing to think the worst, she studied her daughter’s face for answers. If Grace’s lowered brow and clamped lips were an act for the benefit of her mother, she deserved an Oscar. But if the gun, wig and signage didn’t belong to Grace, how had they come to be inside a trunk in her garage? What person would go to the trouble of breaking into a stranger’s garage to hide something? Why?
The other alternative was far bleaker. During a psychotic episode, could her daughter have lost touch with reality and done something terrible? Would she have remembered if she had?
“Mum, are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Margaret managed a small smile. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Thank God for that. I thought you were going to tell me Dad was standing behind me.” Grace slapped the two magnetic signs together, putting them aside as she delved back into the trunk. “It’s been ages since I went through all this stuff. Hey,” she said, emerging from the trunk, holding a green and red rubber monster mask to her face, “maybe that gun you found isn’t even real. Now wouldn’t that be a laugh?” Grace’s high, pealed cackle bounced from wall to wall.
Call it gut instinct, call it woman’s intuition, call it whatever, Margaret knew with a certainty that she hadn’t been holding a replica or toy gun. As much as she wished otherwise, it was no laughing matter. “Listen to me, Grace.”
“I’m listening,” Grace said, dropping the rubber mask back into the trunk and picking up a scruffy teddy bear.
“No, really listen. I don’t know all the details, but…” Margaret paused, undecided about what she should and shouldn’t say. “…A man’s been shot.”
Straightening up, Grace clutched the teddy bear to her chest, her eyebrows arching as if to say: So what? It happens all the time.
“The police want to speak to the driver of a white courier van with orange signage.”
With each word her mother said, Grace’s head tilted further to the side.
“The description of the driver is vague,” continued Margaret, looking down at the wig gripped in her hands, “but the person is believed to have long, black hair.”
“What are you on about now? What man? When? Where?” Grace’s clenched fists dug holes in the hapless teddy bear’s back.
“It was on the news. I only caught the tail end…”
Taking a deep breath, Grace bowed her head. When she looked up again, her face was an expressionless mask. “Mum, I think you’ve been watching too many of those crime shows.” She tried to laugh, but it fell flat, sounding contrived. “I remember now,” she said, gathering up the black wig from Margaret’s hands. “I bought this ages ago, for a fancy dress party.”
Bewildered, Margaret didn’t protest as Grace, not giving her mother a chance to respond, ushered her out of the garage and into the kitchen.
One minute Grace claimed she had never seen the items in the trunk before, the next her memory was miraculously restored. Margaret knew her daughter well enough to know when she was hiding something. She also knew her well enough to know when to back off.
After a light lunch of tomato on rye sandwiches, Grace excused herself, saying she needed to sleep. “You look tired, Mum. A lie-down would do you good, too.”
Sleep was the last thing on Margaret’s mind. The discovery of the gun and her daughter’s erratic behaviour had made sure of that. Until she found out what was happening, she doubted she would ever sleep again. Despite that, she stretched out on the couch, waking with a jolt when she heard a loud clank outside. Half-dazed, she clambered off the couch and went to investigate.
She crept past Grace’s closed bedroom door. Another clank. Louder. She froze. Taking a moment to orientate herself, she realised it was coming from the backyard. She entered the kitchen, her nose wrinkling at the toxic stench of burning nylon and plastic wafting through the open window.
Careful to stay out of sight, she edged along the bench and peeked out. Grace stood with her back to the house, shrouded in a haze of dirty smoke. Squinting, Margaret drew her face closer to the window. The lid of the kettle barbecue sat on the concrete near Grace’s feet. She appeared to be poking at something black and smouldering in the barbecue’s base. A flash of orange.
Margaret gasped, jerking back from the window. Why would Grace be burning the wig and courier signs if she wasn’t trying to hide something? But then again, and she had thought long and hard about this, if a dark-haired woman wanted to disguise herself, wouldn’t she wear a blonde or a red wig? Anything but a black one.
Clutching at the table to steady herself, Margaret sat down. She could no longer ignore the growing dread that her daughter was indirectly, if not directly, involved in something bad. Who was she covering for? Who was she protecting?
CHAPTER 50
Darkness signalled the end of another day, the end of another week. Looking forward to a weekend of nothing, Jacinta kicked off her shoes, curling up on the sofa with a glass of wine and the television remote control, content in the knowledge Brett would be home the next day. Maybe then she would stop jumping at her own shadow.
Perhaps Daniel had been right. Perhaps possums did wear big boots. Certainly, she’d had no more late night or early morning visitors, invited or otherwise. His confirmation that Narelle had been at the hospital with her husband all night also helped quash any lingering doubts she may have had about her friend, but left her feeling doubly bad tha
t she had suspected her in the first place.
The police were no closer to tracking down Craig Edmonds’ assailant, but nor had there been any more attempts on his or his wife’s life. Jacinta was convinced the attack on Craig, his wife’s murder and the Toolangi murders were all related. But how to prove it? Leads were scarce, evidence virtually non-existent. The gun had to be the lynchpin. If only she hadn’t let it out of her hands.
Swirling her glass of wine, she glanced at the television. Her mind elsewhere, she absently watched the actors playing out their parts, heard their rehearsed lines. People living in a world of make-believe.
Narelle’s world wasn’t much different. Despite her friend’s protestations about wanting a normal life, Jacinta knew it would remain out of reach until the killer or killers were brought to justice. Until then, Narelle would have to continue living with uncertainty, doubts and suspicions. A life spent looking over her shoulder.
Skolling the rest of her wine, she dumped the empty glass on the side table, pressed the off button on the remote control and put her shoes back on. The only person who could help Narelle was Narelle. Intent on making her see that, Jacinta collected her car keys and headed out into the night.
She turned into Narelle’s street, pulling up in front of the large, brick house. She let the engine idle, not convinced she was doing the right thing, wondering if interfering could cause more harm than good. She switched off the ignition and sat watching the house. Except for a glow from the pool area, the house was in complete darkness, the streetlights casting eerie shapes over the front lawn. She hadn’t stopped to think Narelle might not be at home. But then, movement in one of the darkened front windows caught her eye.
Gathering up her shoulder bag, she unbuckled the seatbelt and got out of the car. She stretched her neck and rolled her shoulders, uncrimping the tight muscles. Determined not to leave until she had the answers she was looking for, she marched up the path, her resolve almost shattering when she triggered the security light sensors. White light flooded the area, making her feel like a rabbit caught in a hunter’s spotlight.
The front door loomed. She took a deep breath, steadying her pulse, and kept going. Had Narelle seen the lights come on? Reaching the doorstep, she hesitated, half-expecting the door to open. When it didn’t, she pressed the doorbell and, stepping back off the mat, waited. Nothing. She pressed it again, adding a knock for good measure.
Still nothing.
Then a thump, a stifled scream, another thump.
Then nothing.
Jacinta’s heart raced, the saliva in her mouth drying as she backed away from the door. Something wasn’t right. Adrenaline-pumped and with no time to call for help, she ran around the side the house, ripping her jeans as she hoisted herself over the locked iron gate. In the unlit corridor, she had difficulty seeing where she was going, stumbling on the uneven cobblestones.
She rounded the corner of the house by the swimming pool. Immediately she ducked back. Silhouetted in the light by the pool, two figures tussled on the ground. Crouching down and shielded in the shadows, Jacinta crept forward. She heard Narelle’s plaintive voice and another, more strident female’s, but couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Pressing her back up hard against the wall of the house, she felt in her bag for her mobile phone, panicking when she realised she had left it on the kitchen bench. She glanced back at the two women, unable to staunch her cry as she caught the glint of metal, the split-second interruption enough for Narelle to escape the clutches of the other woman.
Narelle scuttled backward, yelling at Jacinta to run, as she made a dash for the house. Narelle wasn’t quick enough, the other woman pouncing and snagging her ankle, bringing her prey down with a thud.
Letting out a blood-curdling shriek, Jacinta hurtled across the paving. She threw herself on the woman’s back and gouged at her eyes. Howling with rage, the woman bucked, tossing Jacinta aside like a rag doll. She heard the crack in her arm before she felt the pain.
The woman advanced, laughing and brandishing a long-bladed knife. “You should have kept your reporter nose out of it, bitch.”
All of a sudden, Grace’s voice rang out. “Kirsty!”
The scene froze, an instant snapshot. Jacinta’s mind spun, the moment too surreal to grasp. Kirsty? Narelle’s sister? Craig’s wife? The murdered woman? That Kirsty?
“It’s over, Kirsty. No more.”
Baring her teeth, the woman laughed. “Grace, darling, how right you are,” she said, her eyes narrowing at the gun pointed at her. “So you found it.”
“You used me. After everything I did for you, how could you? I thought you loved me.” Tears streamed down Grace’s cheeks as, using both hands to hold the gun, she moved forward.
“Grace, give me the gun.”
Grace continued to advance.
“Darling, you know I love you.” Kirsty lunged for the gun, grabbing first the barrel and then Grace’s arm. Both women fell to the ground, wrestling for control of the weapon.
A gunshot shattered the night.
Grace toppled back, a look of disbelief on her face.
Kirsty clutched her abdomen, blood blooming under her shirt, pooling on the pavers under her body.
EPILOGUE
Jacinta adjusted the sling, the cast on her fractured left wrist weighing heavy on her neck, the afternoon’s heat only adding to her discomfort. Seated at the end of the outdoor table, Narelle and Wendy chatted non-stop about babies and pregnancy matters. Pain and gory bits not exempt. If they wanted to put Jacinta off ever having children, they were succeeding.
She glanced across to the men congregated around the barbecue. Brett and Craig supervised while Daniel cooked, talking men’s business, no doubt. Craig caught her eye and smiled, raising his beer in a toast. She raised her glass in return. Who would ever have thought they could’ve been in the same space together without tearing each other apart, let alone be on friendly terms? All those years of being unfairly persecuted would have hardened the most placid of people.
Kirsty Edmonds’ funeral had been a small, private affair, restricted to direct family. That hadn’t stopped the media jostling for position outside the church, waiting for the mourners to emerge. Bids for the Edmonds’ story had come thick and fast, but Narelle and Craig hadn’t been swayed by promises of riches and celebrity, preferring to keep a low profile. Instead, they’d handed the scoop to Jacinta, trusting her to be their spokesperson.
Pulling the pieces together had been the hardest part. With salvaged memories and Grace’s help, the picture became clearer.
Kirsty had always been a jealous person, but marrying Craig had only aggravated it, not alleviated it. Unless she knew where he was and what he was doing every minute of every day, she wasn’t happy. Suspecting Craig was cheating on her fuelled her insecurities. She became obsessed with finding the other woman. She stalked him incessantly, watched his every move, eavesdropped on his conversations, checked his pockets, smelt his clothes, scrutinised his mobile phone bill, read his SMS messages, rifled through his briefcase. The thought it could be her own sister obviously didn’t cross her mind at that stage.
Irrational with jealousy, Kirsty saw relationships where none existed. A friendly smile, a look, a touch perhaps, but that was all. Tamara Whitfield and Chandra Pinder were hapless, innocent victims, their only sin that they had been acquainted with Craig Edmonds. But as far as Kirsty was concerned, these two women were vying with her for her husband’s affections, and they had to be stopped. Permanently.
It must have cut deeply when she eventually found out her husband’s lover was her own sister. The two people she loved most had betrayed her. She wanted them to suffer. In her mind, death would’ve been too kind. She went one step better, framing them for her own murder.
Filled with hatred, she must have spent months plotting her revenge. The insurance policies, a new identity, seducing Grace, fabricating evidence, an escape route – all meticulously planned. All the while, Craig
and Narelle carried on their illicit affair.
Biding her time, she waited for the right moment, slipping Rohypnol or a similar stupefying drug into his whisky before provoking him into an argument. Mixed with the alcohol, the drugs would have taken effect quickly, ensuring he wouldn’t remember anything that happened next.
Time to stage the scene. As a nurse, she had no problem drawing her own blood. Smearing it around the house, she used it to full effect, creating the bloodbath illusion. Planting the hairs in the boot of her car was even easier.
Then, under the cover of darkness, with her husband passed out on the bed, she made her escape, flying out of the country that night under an assumed identity, using a false passport and looking a far cry from the photo splashed across the media in the ensuing days and weeks.
She no doubt followed all the news reports, revelling in the havoc her untimely disappearance had caused. The coup de grâce had to have been seeing her husband charged not once, but twice for her murder.
And she would have pulled it off without a hitch, if she had been able to stay away. After years of relying on the media to keep her informed, Kirsty wanted to see for herself the impact her actions had had on the lives of her betrayers. Jacinta could only imagine her fury when she discovered her unfaithful husband and traitorous sister were married, with a baby on the way. She was prepared to go to any lengths to ensure the couple didn’t live happily ever after.
Using Grace’s infatuation for her for her own ends, Kirsty convinced Grace to be her eyes and ears. She then set about systematically incriminating Craig and Narelle again. Dropping the gold and sapphire cross in the forest near the victims’ bodies, planting the gun inside the house, tipping off the police: it all went according to plan. What Kirsty hadn’t counted on was Grace developing a conscience and coming off her schizophrenia medication. Hiding the gun at Grace’s place after she retrieved it from the recycle bin was probably Kirsty’s worst move. Grace thought Kirsty was setting her up in the same way she had set up Narelle and Craig.