“Can it,” I growled, throwing him a scathing look. “Maggie just wants to ask Mum and Dad a few questions.”
“Us?” Mum exclaimed, dusting her hands off on her apron. “Why?”
I flicked a glance at Dad, who shook his head minutely. He hadn’t told her about James Whiting.
Maggie beat me to a reply. “Just some simple time oriented questions, Mrs Drake. We’re establishing a timeline for an incident that happened earlier this morning.”
“What incident?” Mum asked, never one to go blindly into anything.
“Nothing to worry about, love,” Dad said from across the table. “I’ll talk to the sergeant.” He hauled himself up from the table and made his way toward us, shooting me a hard stare as he approached. I scrubbed a hand over my jaw and winced. Dad pissed off was a thing to witness. Dad pissed off because you’ve upset Mum was World War III.
“Joshua Mitchell Drake!” Mum said sternly. “Don’t you give me the brush off.”
Now Dad winced.
“What is going on? Today of all days. Tell me!”
“Mum,” Drew said carefully from beside a wide eyed Momoko. “Let Dad handle it.”
“Finn Drake, you might be getting married today, but you do not get to boss me around. I am still your mother.”
“Congratulations, by the way,” Maggie said pleasantly. “It’s a beautiful time of the year for a wedding. I promise this won’t take long.” She turned back to Mum. “Really, Mrs Drake. I am so sorry for interrupting your preparations.” Then, “What is that glorious smell? Is it rosewater?”
“Oh,” Mum exclaimed, placing a hand to her chest. “You can tell?” She turned around and opened up the scullery door, letting a few more delicious scents waft out. “It’s a dark chocolate chiffon cake with fluffy rosewater frosting.” She held up her masterpiece on its cake stand toward Maggie.
“Oh, my!” Maggie exclaimed. “My absolute favourite.”
My head was swinging back and forth between them and I noticed everyone else’s faces were doing the same thing around the room. Mouths open, eyes wide, totally absorbed in the proceedings.
“Oh, a girl after my own heart,” Mum enthused. “Rosewater is so under appreciated.”
“Isn’t it though?” Maggie agreed in utter seriousness. My lips started twitching.
“Do you bake?” Mum asked.
“I rarely find the time, I’m afraid,” Maggie complained sweetly.
“I imagine you wouldn’t,” Mum sympathised. “Such a busy job.”
“I manage,” Maggie said with a beaming smile. It surprised me that it wasn’t fake. “Did you bake that this morning?” She nodded toward the cake now sitting on the kitchen bench.
“First thing.”
Maggie peered into the scullery at the rest of Mum’s preparations. “Wow! You have been busy. When did you get up?”
Sweet Jesus, she was interrogating my mother.
“Oh, about four-thirty, I think.”
“And no one helped you?” Maggie asked innocently.
“Oh, no. Well, Luke did come down and keep me company at about half past five. But all he wanted was his bacon and eggs.”
Maggie shot me a scolding look: I had to cover my laughter with a cough.
“But he didn’t help?” she pressed.
“No, farming is a demanding job, Sergeant Blackmore. He was out the door at six, off with Charlie, our foreman, to check on stock. I wouldn’t expect him to help me bake, anyway.”
“Can’t cook to save himself, then, eh?” Maggie said with a knowing smile.
“I make a mean salmon chowder, Sergeant,” I said, interrupting this farce. “Maybe, if you ask nicely, I’ll cook it for you one day.”
“Maybe,” she said, playing along.
Mum’s whole demeanour perked up on that small exchange.
“You should come along this afternoon, Sergeant,” she said in a rush of breathless wonder.
“Pardon?” Maggie croaked, caught off guard, at a guess.
“To the dinner.”
“Oh, no. That’s a family affair.”
“Nonsense!” Mum exclaimed. “You don’t mind, do you, Momoko?”
“Not at all,” Finn’s future wife said with a wide grin.
“Neither do I, if you’re asking,” Finn added. “The more the merrier.”
“And anyone who can make Luke laugh,” Justin offered, “has to be worth having on the dance floor.”
“There’ll be a dance floor?” Maggie asked, recovering quite nicely and holding her own with my interfering family.
“Absolutely!” Mum said. “Then it’s settled. Luke, make sure Sergeant Blackmore knows when to be here. In fact, why don’t you pick her up? Then she can have a celebratory drink.”
“What about my celebratory drink?” I said affronted.
“Bro,” Justin quipped. “Don’t you know the effects of alcohol can mess with your libi…”
“All right,” I said loudly, gripping Maggie’s shoulders and steering her towards the door. “I think we’re done here.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Maggie drawled, allowing me to steer her out of the kitchen as she offered a small farewell wave to her entirely too enthralled audience. “I’m only just getting started.”
“Sweetheart,” I said leaning down and whispering into her ear. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“What? Not my gun?”
I started chuckling. “You are far more dangerous than a pistol.”
“Oh, aren’t they so sweet together,” my mother announced from back in the kitchen.
Bloody hell, shoot me now. Family!
Chapter 9
Last Night
Maggie
The Smoking Salmon Tavern opened at eleven each day. It was half past now and I didn’t expect it to be busy. But as Doc Harding wasn’t answering his phone and Sheila had advised that Mac and Annmarie were at a traffic incident, I decided to jump ahead in the investigation and see what I could find out about last night.
James Whiting had been here at some point. According to Luke, he’d left the establishment and Whiting at nine-thirty. Early to bed for farmers, he’d enjoyed telling me. His father hadn’t been much better. Confirming he’d heard his son get in at ten, and then rise in the morning, showering at just after five. He’d also gone on to say that Luke had come home alone. Emphasis on the ‘alone’ part of the statement.
I suddenly had a large dose of empathy for Luke Drake if his family were that forward in trying to set up his dates for him.
It was with a small amused smile on my face that I pushed open the front door to Smokey’s.
Fishing paraphernalia dotted the walls, along with mounted stag heads. The smell of hops and malt filled the air. Speights beer signs strategically lit up dark corners. The furniture was dark and pitted, well worn and comfortable. A jukebox sat to one side of the long wooden bar. A Crowded House song playing.
My boots made hollow thudding sounds as I crossed the floor approaching the lone barman wiping down the counter with his left hand. An old man sat down one end of it, leaning over his whisky. Three couples sat at various tables throughout the room enjoying the local brew or a plate of greasy food for brunch.
It was a typical rural New Zealand pub. I liked it. Nothing pretentious. Exactly what you’d expect to see in a place like Twizel.
Except for the pirate-like hook for a hand on the guy behind the bar.
“You the new sergeant?” he said in way of greeting. His hook shone brightly under the overhead lights as it rested between him and me across the counter.
“You the owner of Smokey’s?” I answered.
He grunted and started wiping the surface again. I noticed his movements were slightly jerky. He was clearly naturally right handed. I stared at the hook and wondered how he poured a beer.
“What’ya want to drink?” he asked after a moment’s silence.
“I’ll have a Coke,” I replied, taking a seat on one of the high stools bef
ore him. I’m embarrassed to admit, I only suggested a drink to see how he would manage.
He pulled a glass out with his left hand, dunked it in the ice bucket, and plonked it down behind the bar on the drainer, then lifted the nozzle on the soda dispenser and poured the drink. All one handed. It was anticlimactic, to say the least.
I smiled as he pushed it over the counter. No coaster needed.
“You heard about James Whiting?” I asked him after I’d taken a sip of my drink.
“Yep. Word travels fast in Twizel.”
“He was here last night. Were you working?”
“Yep. Hard to find good helpers.”
“What time did he leave?”
He shrugged his shoulder. “Busy night, Fridays. Lots of people here.” He rubbed the edge of the hook across his chin, making me want to cringe. That thing looked wicked sharp. “P’haps ten.”
“No later?”
“Hard to say. Wasn’t watching him closely.”
“Even when he had a fight with Luke Drake?”
He stopped wiping the counter for a second, and then resumed his spot cleaning again.
“Didn’t see no fight between Drake and him.”
“Well, it was more of a run in,” I explained. “About dirty wool.”
“Didn’t see no run in, neither.”
I smiled tightly into my Coke.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got security cameras around here?” I asked pleasantly. It was taking a little more effort than normal to remain pleasant. This guy was stalling and I was sure it was just a case of local loyalty wins.
“Nope. Only place got cameras is the souvenir shop across the street.”
“The gift shop? Why would it have cameras?”
“Don’t you have shoplifting back in the city?”
I grimaced. “Yeah, we do.”
“Twizel’s not much different,” he said, succinctly.
I glanced at his hook and silently disagreed.
“Anything else you can tell me about Mr Whiting?” I asked. “Anything stand out as unusual or simply just catch your eye?”
“Nope. Busy night. ‘Nother Jaffa don’t make much of anything unusual. You lot been coming down here for years. Can’t keep you away.”
Jaffa. As in, JAFA. Just Another Fucking Aucklander. Nice.
“Yeah, well,” I said. “That particular JAFA won’t be bothering you anymore.”
His eyes met mine and I forced myself to hold his eerie gaze. I could have sworn his right eye was made of glass. All he needed was a patch over that puppy and he’d have a role in the next Peter Pan movie. If he was lucky, it’d be directed by Peter Jackson, then he wouldn’t have to deal with any upstart JAFAs telling him what to do.
“Thanks for your time and the drink,” I said, pulling out my wallet and fishing out a five dollar note.
“On the house,” he said, pushing the bill back towards me. “Welcome to Twizel, Sergeant.” Then he turned away and clomped loudly down the other end of the bar to the old man holding up his empty whisky glass for a refill.
I stared down at the barman’s shoes, but he didn’t have a peg leg. Strangely, I was slightly disappointed.
Pulling on my sunglasses as I emerged from the dim light in the Tavern, I stared across the street toward the souvenir shop. I spotted the external cameras immediately. They weren’t hidden. And they were copious in number. Puzzled, I did a slow walk by and then swept down the side street and came in from the rear.
More cameras. Angled toward the delivery door, the back door, and in both directions down the alley. Also, if I wasn’t mistaken, across the fence into the backyard of… I took a step back and peered up at the sign on the side of the building butting onto the yard in question. The Twizel Pharmacy.
I arched my brow. Just what did the gift shop think was happening in the back garden of the local Chemist’s?
I walked back around the front of the store and pushed open the door, making the chimes above it ding loudly.
“Sergeant Blackmore,” a woman with a cultured British accent greeted from behind a very cluttered display in the centre of the shop.
“Hello?” I called, squeezing past a rack of postcards on one side and a stand displaying plush kiwis and merino sheep, and the odd stuffed salmon.
The woman was standing behind the counter in a flowing patterned dress that hugged her slim waist, accentuated her flaring hips, and dipped down in the front to reveal a daring cleavage. Her make-up was impeccable, her hair coifed to perfection. Blonde. Blue eyed. Completely out of place in Twizel.
“You have me at a disadvantage,” I said, holding out my hand for her to clasp. Her handshake was firm, but not overpowering. “I’m afraid I haven’t made my way around all of the business owners yet and learned names.”
“No,” she replied pleasantly. “You’ve been kept busy at the station. No doubt, learning the ropes.”
It was a simple statement. You could almost believe it was a guess. But for the way she said it. Outright. Sure of her knowledge. Confident.
I glanced to the side of the behind counter area and spotted a dozen small TV screens, showing various views from around the outside of the store.
“Quite a set up you have there,” I said nodding towards them.
“Oh, yes,” she agreed, swinging back to stare at the screens avidly. “One can never be too sure of one’s safety.”
“Even in Twizel,” I said with a smile.
She turned back and looked directly at me. “Especially in Twizel, Sergeant.”
OK. Got it. Perfectly normal.
“I’m Alicia Parsons, by the way,” she said perkily.
“Pleased to meet you.”
“And you would like to know about last night.”
I blinked. “What makes you say that, Ms Parsons?”
She sighed. Then turned back to the TV screens and started pushing buttons. In seconds, she pulled up footage of across the street towards Smokey’s. She started playing the recording back. It was state of the art. Crystal clear, even though the street lights in Twizel aren’t particularly illuminating. The Auckland City CCTV system wasn’t as high quality as this.
“Last night,” she said triumphantly, as I watched James Whiting emerge from the tavern and start to walk down the street.
He stumbled slightly. Pressed his hand to the wall of a cafe. Then proceeded to vomit into the gutter.
“Charming,” Alicia hissed. I was more concerned for Whiting’s state of health. Had he been drugged inside Smokey’s? His drink doctored? Or was this something else? Internal trauma? Simple alcohol poisoning?
No one had mentioned he was intoxicated. And even if it had been busy in the pub, old Hook would have been aware of an inebriated customer. Barmen made it their business to be aware of such things, or suffered the legal consequences.
Whiting pulled himself together on the screen and then started to walk off again. At the edge of the camera’s range, he stopped. The headlights of a vehicle came into view, but not the car itself. Whiting said something. Someone off screen must have replied. Then he took a step out of shot, the door to the car opening enough to be seen, showing a dark colour; brown or black or navy. Then the headlights moved on.
And an oversized ute came into focus. Black. Dirty. A Ford emblem turning lazily on the inside of the matching black alloy wheels.
I’d seen a car just like that before. This morning, in fact. I knew there were possibly hundreds throughout the country like it. But when the vehicle turned at the end of the street and the souvenir shop owner’s state of the art security cameras zoomed in, the first three letters of its license plate came into view.
RED.
Motherfucker. Red Tussock Holdings.
I spun on my heel and flew out the door.
Chapter 10
Sometimes Life Was Fucking Hard
Luke
Matt was drunk. Already. The bottle of whisky three quarters full. An empty one lying on its side next to it. He hadn’t
shaved for a couple days by the looks of it and I doubted he’d showered in as many, too. He looked up blearily at me from his semi recline on the faded armchair. A loaded rifle leaned against the side of his boot as it swung over the armrest of his seat.
For a second, I just stood there. Any number of scenarios flashing through my head. I rubbed my face, feeling a headache coming on, and then crossed the space between us and picked up the gun. In a split second, I had the casings ejected, and had moved the rifle across the shed and placed it on a high shelf out of immediate reach.
Ridiculous. Even pissed Matt could simply stand up, stumble across the dirt packed floor, and reach the fucking thing.
“Damn it, Matt,” I said, my voice rough with pent up anger. “How could you do this?”
“Not doin’ anythin’, big brother,” he slurred, “‘cept drinkin’.” He raised the whisky bottle to his lips and took a deep pull.
“It’s Finn’s wedding day,” I pointed out.
“Lucky him.” There was absolutely no mistaking the bitter tone to his words.
I stretched my jaw, trying to ease the ache that had started there, and moved across from him to take the spare seat. We stared at each other, but how much Matt was seeing was debatable.
“So, you’re gonna miss it?” I asked. “Stand him up?”
“He’s got three other brothers.”
“One of which is overseas fighting for his country.”
“Two then.”
“He asked you to be a groomsman and you said yes.”
“That was before.”
I stared at my hands as they hung between my legs, my elbows to my spread knees. The shed smelled of motor oil and fertiliser. I was sure I could hear a rodent scuttling in the rafters. I was probably sitting in mouse droppings. Matt looked like he’d slept here.
“Rachel and Dani miss you,” I tried.
The bottle of whisky flew through the air and crashed against the metal siding. It didn’t break, just dented the fucking thing. Then thumped to the floor. Amber liquid spilled out making a muddy puddle in the corner.
Southern Sunset: Book One of 44 South Page 5