Disguising Demons

by Brigid George

  “You still own some land though, don’t you?” said Dusty.

  Moose snorted. “A piddlin’ few acres.”

  “But big enough for a marijuana plantation?”

  “About all it’s good for. I was doin’ all right with the pot, too. Until the friggin’ cops got their hands on it. After some friggin’ lowlife dobbed me in. That land was makin’ money for me till that happened. Now look at me.” He gestured at his house. “I can hardly keep this place upright.”

  “You believe Ram, the dead monk, was the person who reported you?”

  “It had to be one of them and he was the one crawling off to the cops.”

  “What did he say when you accused him?”

  “He didn’t say nothin’! Just cowered like a frightened dog and slunk away with his tail between his legs. Bloody pansy.”

  To Moose, a pansy was probably any man who preferred peace to fighting but monks who have the audacity to wear robes instead of trousers would rank even lower in his estimation.

  “That convinced you he was guilty?”

  “Convinced me he was a bloody wimp. Just the sort who’d go sneaking off to the cops.”

  “The police told you it wasn’t him, didn’t they? They received an anonymous tip off. Ram had legitimate business at the police station that day. It had nothing to do with your pot plantation.”

  “Police! Ha! Lyin’ lotta wankers they are.”

  A long shrill birdcall rang out followed by an angry burst of barking from Butch. Moose twisted his body around and yelled at the dog.

  “Down, boy!” He turned back to us, gesturing at the overhanging tree. “It’s the bloody whipbird that sets Butch off. Doesn’t mind the parrots but can’t stand that bird’s darn shrieking.”

  When the bird rendered a second long, drawn out call finishing with what sounded like a whip-crack, Butch detonated another burst of ferocious barks. Moose finished his beer, squashed the can with one hand and aimed it at the tree. A smirk of satisfaction crossed his face at the sound of wings fluttering as the frightened whipbird quickly departed.

  Dusty’s face was impassive but her anger at Moose’s childish response to the bird’s song was reflected in her next question.

  “Is that your normal reaction when something annoys you, Moose?” His eyes narrowed in a threatening squint challenging her to elaborate. Dusty obliged. “Did you make the monk ‘go away’ because he annoyed you?”

  Moose picked up another can of beer, opening it with a decisive click of the ring tab. I wondered if he was showing contempt toward Dusty’s questions or playing for time. Dusty wasn’t about to give him too much time.

  “What about the day before Ram was murdered? Did you see him in Macrossan Street?”

  “I didn’t touch him!” I had to take my hat off to Dusty. The anger in Moose’s voice suggested she’d managed to unsettle him.

  “You spoke to the monk that day, didn’t you?”

  Moose rolled his eyes as though to acknowledge he’d been caught out.

  “I told him to get away from my truck. That’s all. Made me bloody mad seeing him walking along with that superior look on his face.”

  He threw his head back, tilted the can and poured beer into his open mouth. I wondered if Dusty too was thinking that this tattooed hulk, whose anger could be sparked by the mundane act of walking past his truck, had enough bottled up resentment to make him as volatile as a powder keg.

  Whatever she thought of him it didn’t show in her expression or her tone of voice as she pressed him further. “The monk made you so angry that you stewed on it all day and all night. The next day, you got up early in the morning and went to the Sanctuary.”

  Mulligan had told the police he was nowhere near Sunyarta on the morning of the murder but Dusty spoke with such quiet conviction Moose must have thought she knew otherwise. He wasn’t to know she was simply throwing out a speculation to see how he’d react. His reaction was not the incensed, indignant denial I expected.

  His hand tightened around the beer can but he maintained his self control. “I did not kill the bloody monk.” He emphasised each word, his eyes flashing his anger as he spoke.

  Dusty was ready to reel him in. “You were at the Sanctuary, weren’t you?”

  “Hell! Look, I just went up there to check the place out.”

  “Check the place out?” Dusty’s tone was wreathed in scepticism. She wasn’t going to let him get away with that. “Early in the morning?” Moose definitely did not give the impression of being an early riser.

  “So I couldn’t sleep.” His stare challenged her to contradict him.

  Dusty refrained from voicing her disbelief. Instead, knowing Moose was ready to justify his reason for being at Sunyarta Sanctuary that morning, she returned his stare with an attentive expression to encourage him to continue.

  “Shit!” He was annoyed at the realisation he’d gone too far and would now have to explain. “So I was going to throw a few rocks around, break a couple of windows, smash up a few things. That’s all. I couldn’t have done anything even if I wanted to.” Moose took a final swig, wiped his mouth with his bare arm and squashed the empty beer can with one crunch.

  Dusty raised her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

  Moose aimed his flattened can at a nearby hole in the ground where it landed with a metallic clink on top of other discarded cans. “Someone else was there. All right?”

  Pushing her empty can aside, Dusty leant forward. “Someone else? Who?”

  “I dunno who it was. Even if I did…”

  “You’re not a grass.” Dusty finished his sentence. “What time were you there?”

  “Middle of the bloody night! Four thirty. Five o’clock. Something like that.”

  “If you have nothing to hide, why did you lie to the police? You told them you were nowhere near Sunyarta the morning the murder took place.”

  “None of their business.”

  “But you’re telling me.”

  “Yeah, well. None of your business either. But you’re good. You always get the killer you’re after. So I reckon I might as well help you. Once the real killer is caught, at least the cops’ll have to get off my back. Maybe I’ll even sue them for harassment.”

  As we walked along the path back to the gate a short time later, Dusty couldn’t keep the smile from her face.

  “Are you smiling at the thought of Moose suing the police or because you picked up on a clue?”

  “Both.”

  “Did you believe that stuff about wanting the real killer caught?”

  “I think that could be Moose’s devious way of trying to convince me he’s innocent.”

  Butch discharged one final barrage of canine profanity as we passed his enclosure.

  Chapter 20

  “Now that Moose has admitted to being at Sunyarta on the morning of the murder,” said Dusty during our drive back to town, “I might be able to get him to take that admission a step closer to a murder confession.”

  “Right. He might have dug a hole he can’t get out of.”

  “Exactly. For the time being though, I’ll let him think he’s in the clear. Talking about digging, you’d better see what you can dig up on our tattooed beer drinker in cyber space. With a bit of luck, we could find someone with a grudge against him who might be willing to ‘help us with our enquiries’.”

  “Sounds like a long shot. But I’ll do my best.”

  “The thing is, Sean, I think he only admitted being on the hill that morning to cover his tracks before I found out myself. Don’t you find that interesting? Why would he think I might find out?”

  “You think he told someone?”

  “Yep! He’s the sort that’d be itching to boast about murdering the monk. Word may have got around. There just might be someone who wouldn’t talk to the police but who would be willing to point us in the right direction. Now that he’s admitted being there, all we need is a piece of evidence linking him to the murder.” Dusty’s eyes were brigh
t with the anticipation of success. “Do your best Mr Maze Master; he’s the only real suspect we’ve got so far. Apart from the possibility of a crazed monk.”

  Dusty smiled and waved in response to enthusiastic tooting from a passing motorist who pointed at the FJ Holden approvingly. Dusty’s car often attracted attention from other drivers excited at seeing the iconic 1955 model on the road.

  I considered telling Dusty about Ingrid. However, when I realised I hadn’t passed on some pertinent information I had uncovered, I decided that would be an easier topic of conversation.

  “By the way, I picked up some information at the pool table the other night.”

  After Ingrid had wished me a loving goodnight that evening, a stupid, irrational shaft of fear at the thought of how my life would change after marriage sent me racing out the door to the car park where my Triumph Thunderbird, which had been trucked up to Port Douglas, was waiting. I had headed out along the open road, revelling in the sense of freedom being on the Thunderbird always gave me. When I had ridden long enough to settle my attack of nerves, I pulled up outside a bar where I’d noticed a pool table earlier and played a few games with a couple of locals.

  “Do tell,” said Dusty with a wide grin.

  “Seems Rocky’s a bit of a ladies’ man but was engaged to be married until recently.”

  “He broke her heart, didn’t he?”

  “He did. His fiancé was devastated when he called off the engagement.”

  Dusty nodded knowingly. “I told you. He comes across as charming in a sweet and gentle way but underneath he’s just another insensitive male.”

  I was about to protest that not all men are insensitive when I saw the corners of her mouth curl up in a smile. I ignored her teasing.

  “Anyway, it was what I learnt about his fiancé that I really wanted to tell you.”

  Dusty put her head to one side and raised a curious eyebrow. “I’m all ears.”

  “Right. Her name’s Beth. She’s a part-time chef at Rocky’s Cafe. One of my fellow pool players just happened to mention he saw her talking to Ram.”

  “Interesting. When was this?”

  “The last time Ram was in town. The day he had the run-in with Moose.”

  “That means she had contact with Ram in the vital twenty four hours leading up to his death. I’ll need to interview Rocky’s ex.” Dusty’s eyes flicked to the rear vision mirror. It wasn’t the first time she’d done that during this short drive.

  “Are we being followed?” I started to turn my head to look at the cars behind us. Dusty stopped me with a sharp command.

  “Don’t look round!” I stared at her in surprise. “She’s following us again. I noticed her silver Toyota following us to the vet’s the other day. And guess what? A silver Toyota was parked near Sunyarta the first day we went there. I saw it when we were walking back down the hill. I reckon this woman has been tracking us since we arrived in Port Douglas.”

  “Every second car in Australia is a silver Toyota,” I reminded her.

  “True. But they’re not all driven by the same woman with short dark hair.” Dusty gave me a triumphant look.

  I risked a glance in the passenger side mirror and saw a silver car behind us, some distance back. I couldn’t see the driver clearly.

  “That car doesn’t look like it’s following us.”

  “She’s dropped back a bit now. Probably realised staying close behind me would look suspicious.” The scepticism must have shown on my face because Dusty uttered an indignant protest. “Don’t you dare suggest I’m imagining things!”

  I raised my hand in surrender.

  “Anyway, back to Beth,” said Dusty. “Where can we find her?”

  “She still works a couple of days a week for Rocky. She also does volunteer work at Sunyarta – helps them out on their open days when they have a lot of visitors.”

  “She won’t be hard to find, then.”

  A few minutes later we were back in the town centre with the silver car still behind us. Dusty pulled over into a parking bay and grabbed a pen from her bag.

  “I’ll get the rego number as she goes past.”

  The silver Toyota passed us and continued along the street. The dark haired woman behind the wheel was focused on the road ahead and didn’t look in our direction.

  “Quick!” Dusty was writing the car’s registration number on her hand. “Get out and see where she goes. Only don’t make it obvious you’re watching her.”

  I scrambled out of the car as quickly as I could. Using a street tree as a shield, I watched the Toyota through the leaves as it continued along the road before eventually turning left.

  Dusty leant across the front seats to speak to me. “Where did she go?”

  “Turned left at the end of the street. Probably just a local resident going about normal daily business. She didn’t seem interested in us when she drove past.”

  “Would you turn to look at someone if you were following them and didn’t want them to know?”

  “Right. Good point.”

  Dusty held up her palm with the registration number written on it. “Here’s another job for you, Mr Maze Master. See if you can find out who owns this car. It’s a Queensland rego so she could be a local, but I don’t think she’s just going about her normal daily business.”

  I snapped a photo of Dusty’s palm with my phone.

  “If she was following us…” We were inside a small cafe at a back table which offered some privacy when Dusty posed this question. I’d brought my laptop from the car and had started searching the internet while we waited for our coffees.

  Dusty glared at me, nostrils flaring. “If?”

  The use of ‘if’ was probably what is known as a Freudian slip because it had crossed my mind Dusty was being overly suspicious. I attempted to minimise the damage.

  “I just wondered whether she could be your everyday local busybody wanting to know what the famous Dusty Kent is up to in her little town.”

  By the time we’d finished our coffees that theory was very much in doubt. Dusty’s suspicions seemed to be valid. I looked up from the computer screen to pass on what I’d discovered.

  “Access to the details of this registration number is restricted,” I said. Dusty’s eyes widened. “It could be risky for me to venture into that particular restricted area, but I can give it a go.”

  Dusty shook her head. “No. Leave it for now. I have a couple of other jobs I want you to do. Firstly, see what you can find out about Ashin Khin, the monk who had the ‘sad accident’ in the same spot where Ram was killed. Secondly…” She lowered her voice as a waiter whisked by balancing steaming cups of coffee on a tray. “See if you can connect Ram to Portsea. Was there an artist called Brody Johnson living there?” Her face was glowing with the excitement of the chase. “I really believe the key to finding this murderer lies in Ram’s past. His painting has given us a place to start.”

  Chapter 21

  “Good news!” I said to Dusty on Monday morning. “I can tell you everything you want to know about the mysterious death of Ashin Khin.”

  Hours in front of the computer over the weekend had yielded mixed results but I had at least managed to ascertain how that particular monk had died.

  Dusty and I were reclining in a pair of deck chairs in the grounds of Four Mile Resort with tall palms gently swaying behind us. Dusty had wrapped her bikini clad body in a sarong after her morning swim. She peered expectantly at me over the top of her sunglasses which she’d slipped along her nose.

  “Khin was killed in the spring of 2013 when a falling tree branch fell on him and pinned him to the ground. Paramedics tried to revive him but he died at the scene. The coroner ruled the death a tragic accident. No suggestion of foul play. An arborist was called in to examine the tree and found no signs it was diseased and no indication the tree had been tampered with in any way.”

  Dusty removed her sunglasses, holding them in one hand while she considered what I’d said.
r />   “Did they say what sort of tree it was?”

  “That wasn’t mentioned.”

  “It might have been a gum tree. They have this neat trick of suddenly dropping branches to save themselves from dying – especially during dry weather when they can’t get enough water to sustain the whole tree.”

  “Sounds like a dangerous neat trick.”

  Dusty nodded. “Yep. There’s no warning except a loud cracking sound. By that time there’s no chance of getting out of the way if you happen to be in the path of the falling branch. Still, I shouldn’t think branch dropping is a regular occurrence in this area, with all the rain they get. The poor monk was just unlucky.” Dusty sighed. “Shame that line of enquiry turned out to be a dead end.”

  Dusty had thought Khin’s death might link to Ram’s murder therefore strengthening the theory that one of the monks was our killer.

  “We’re not making much progress in this case, Sean. We’re back to Moose Mulligan and we haven’t got anything on him.”

  Unfortunately, I hadn’t yet been able to find anyone willing to talk to us about Moose.

  “What about Kellie Edwards?” I thought it might cheer Dusty up to consider another suspect. “She hated the monks and she lied about being at Sunyarta on the morning of the murder.”

  “The thing is, Sean, I think we’re looking for a male murderer because of the kick in the testicles. I mean, I can see a woman kicking a man in the testicles if he was attacking her or trying to rape her. But Ram’s murder was a different situation.”

  “Right. So you don’t think Kellie Edwards would have done it?”

  “I didn’t say that. I can see her murdering Ram. But why kick him in the groin?”

  “She wanted him to feel excruciating pain.”

  Dusty gave me an appraising look. “Good point. I wasn’t thinking of it that way.” After a moment’s reflection, she continued. “Okay. She kicks him in the testicles because she wants him to suffer. She strips him of his robe because it’s a symbol of the monks she despises. But there’s the missing sandal. Do you see Kellie Edwards as the sort of person who would take Ram’s thong as a trophy?”