Till Daph Do Us Part

by Phillipa Nefri Clark

  It suddenly opened.

  Daphne jumped. She’d thought nobody was in the building with her.

  A man in his sixties, dressed exactly as Daphne imagined a newspaper boss would be—pants held up with suspenders over a striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up—emerged, a paper held in front of his eyes as he approached the counter. It was clear he had no idea she was there and when their eyes met, he uttered a swear word and dropped the paper.

  “I am so sorry. Please forgive my dreadful language. I didn’t know anyone was here.” He swept the paper up off the floor.

  “Don’t apologise. I should have spoken.”

  “There’s a bell on the counter.” He looked. “Okay, there isn’t a bell. I must find out where it is. Anyhow, I am Maurice.” Hand extended, he smiled widely.

  Daphne shook his hand. “Hello, Maurice. I’m Daphne Jones and I wondered if—”

  “You are?”

  I am…what?

  “Mrs Jones, I am so happy to meet you. Please, please come and sit at my desk and I’ll make you a coffee. Or tea? Or would you like water?”

  “Water would be nice.” She followed him to the desk at the very back. It was covered with files and so was the chair he gestured to before he disappeared into the back room again.

  Despite the disorder, the feel in the room was welcoming.

  “Oh dear. Here, you take the water and I,” he grabbed the files from the chair, “will make space for you.”

  She sat with some amusement as he looked here and there and finally placed the files onto a neighbouring desk. Then he dropped into the chair opposite and smiled again.

  “Now, where were we?”

  “Is this your newspaper?”

  “It is. I took over from my father almost half a century ago. He started The Chronicle after the previous paper slid into bankruptcy and I like to believe I honour his work.” He waved a hand at the walls. “We’ve won awards for our reporting. Small, yes. But more than our share of articles have been picked up by national newspapers, even in recent years, which is incredible considering how much is online these days.”

  “Technology might advance us in many ways, but in my opinion, there is nothing like a real newspaper.”

  Maurice beamed.

  What a lovely man. There was something so sweet and delightful about him. Perhaps his passion for the work that obviously filled his heart.

  “So, Maurice, how do you know my name?”

  “My dear Mrs Jones. Everyone in Little Bridges knows of you.”

  “Oh, my. I’m not sure if that is a good thing.”

  “I’d hoped to visit and ask for some comments from you but as you can see,” he gestured at the room, “no staff. All three of them off this week. Of all weeks.”

  Because who can plan ahead for a murder?

  “Two of them are my son and his wife. How wonderful it is to see our family tradition continue and expand through marriage, but it takes two people away from the paper when they have a holiday. The third staff member went to Melbourne on Monday to be close to the coroner’s court for any news and he’s still down there.”

  “So…has he heard much?”

  Tread softly, Daph.

  “Pretty much what the police know, which I’m sure they’ve discussed with you.” He leaned back in his seat. “Steve was stabbed in the neck and pushed into the pool, hitting his head on the way in. He was still alive but unconscious when he entered the water. Took next to no time for him to pass away. Darned shame for such a young man.”

  “You knew him. I imagine you must, having lived here for a long time.”

  “Know the family of course but Steve only from his sport and music. And occasional run-ins with the law. He’s been mentioned a few times in The Chronicle for all three reasons.” He laughed shortly. “Paper comes out Friday so hoping we get some leads to include.”

  “Leads?”

  Maurice rummaged through the papers on his desk until he found a large notepad. “Keeping track of what I hear. Not that I’m about to do the work of our local police but I want our stories authentic. And as close to the source helps with that. So are you happy to answer some questions?”

  “I am. But may I ask you some questions as well?”

  Already turning to a new page, Maurice glanced up. “Ask, but whether I can answer depends on keeping confidentiality. Quite serious about protecting my sources.”

  “As you should. I’m curious about the arrangement between Bertie Brooker and Toby Tanning. The business arrangement.”

  As if to give himself time to think, Maurice inserted a perfectly pointed pencil into a sharpener.

  Daphne continued. “The reason I ask is to get some context for a comment I overheard at a restaurant the night of the murder.”

  He stopped turning the pencil. “I’m listening.”

  Daphne smiled. “I may need to protect my sources.”

  With a big grin, Maurice tossed the notepad and pencil onto the desk. “We’ll swap stories then. Bertie created a local caravan industry. Not only his business, which built them from the ground up, but complimentary businesses popped up. A parts manufacturer. A tourism shop based on places to camp. Even the caravan and camping park grew thanks to Bertie. But things changed over time. Bertie made some poor decisions and money was tight. Against Bob’s advice, instead of retiring he went into partnership with Toby.”

  “I heard the families never got on.”

  Maurice waved his hand in the air dismissively. “A long time ago, perhaps. But generations change and although Bertie and Toby weren’t close mates, they liked doing business together. All was well for a couple of years and then Bob started nosing around in the accounts—well, that’s his job—and reckoned there’d been some…misappropriation of funds.”

  Bob was an accountant. Suited him.

  “There were accusations and bad feelings and before you knew it, Toby wanted out which forced Bertie close to bankruptcy. Went to court. Got sorted, but after everyone was paid out, all that was left for Bertie was the land the Brookers now live on and a couple of caravans.”

  Daphne let out a breath she hadn’t noticed she was holding. “How devastating for Bertie. I’m a bit confused though. Bob mentioned he had spent all his money on building the house.”

  “Bob’s money?”

  When Daphne nodded, Maurice threw back his head to laugh long and loudly. When he stopped, he found a tissue and wiped his eyes.

  “Sorry. Did Bob really give you the idea he paid for the place?”

  “He did. Was quite clear about the investment. Why?”

  “The money came from Lisa. She had a huge inheritance when she was a kid. The second she turned eighteen she threw the money around like it was confetti and some landed with her mother, who had the house built. Bob was an onlooker.”

  The phone rang and Maurice apologised and answered, taking it with him for privacy.

  This changed everything. If Lisa controlled the money then her reluctance to move out was understandable. As was her demanding behaviour. Bob and Margaret might live there but Lisa held the purse strings. It was time to take a closer look at Lisa’s parents. Would they be fearful of losing their home and lifestyle when Lisa married?

  “Apologies for the interruption. May I ask you some questions now?” Maurice asked.

  “Of course, but about Lisa…who did she inherit the money from?”

  “Her father when he died.”

  “Her…what?”

  Maurice picked up his notepad. “Ah. I see that you thought Bob was her father. No. He’s Margaret’s second husband. And those ladies never let him forget it.”

  Another Twist

  If it wasn’t old graveyards, library reference rooms were right up there for John as enjoyable places to visit. Little Bridges Library was housed in an old, converted courthouse, complete with echoing hallways. Quite appropriate a setting for uncovering past crimes.

  Seated in front of a microfiche reader loaded with copies
of historical records from the region filled John with a sense of discovery. The librarian was most happy to assist, telling John few people even knew such devices existed today. She’d located records from the earliest days of the town and ensured he knew how to handle them properly. He did.

  After setting the alarm on his watch to vibrate in one hour—knowing how he would lose track of time with research—he began his search. The records ranged from births, deaths, and marriages on public record, through to newspaper clippings. All the documents he’d requested focused on the two families who had shaped the early years of this town.

  And still do.

  Father McIntyre’s story came to life as he read accounts from a fledgling newspaper, Little Bridges Bugle. Richard Brooker was mayor of the town and owner of several businesses. Joseph Tanner ran livestock. Both contributed to building the town including the church John had visited. Joseph was a widower with one son when Richard’s new wife took his eye.

  The newspaper article was heavily slanted in favour of Richard, with the loss of his first wife mentioned several times along with his generosity to the young woman who was employed as a nanny but wanted her own family. Their marriage, according to the paper, was his way of giving her what she longed for.

  It was less than six months later when she left Richard. There was a report of her disappearance being suspicious. And a week on, her appearance in town on the arm of Joseph. The next story was on the front page of the newspaper with the headline ‘Scandalous woman destroys two families’. Images of a younger Richard and Joseph together in front of a timber and stone house. A rehash of the story of the death of Richard’s first wife. And then inside, the account of the night Richard and Joseph shot each other.

  John made notes from time to time. Daphne would be intrigued by this saga which continued for weeks with each story outdoing the previous in speculation of why and how this happened. Much was said about the orphaned Brooker children but only one mention of the Tanning boy, said to be living with his aunt.

  Buried at the bottom of a long obituary for Richard was mention of his second wife. Mary Smith. “Had to be a common name!” Not one to let a small obstacle stop him, John finished up with the newspapers, and moved onto births, deaths, and marriages records. A glance at his watch gave him a hurry on.

  The marriage of Mary and Richard was recorded but not another mention of her. Certainly not in this region.

  His watch vibrated and with a sigh, John returned the microfiche to its box and turned off the reader. If he could ready Bluebell to leave early, then he’d drop Daphne at the Brookers and settle down with his favourite genealogy app. One never knew what might result from a good browse.

  “I cannot wait to update you on everything I discovered!” Daphne had arrived back at Bluebell minutes before John and was readying lunch to put into a sandwich press. “Can you pass me the mustard?”

  “Have a bit of news myself, but nothing which is going to change the direction of the investigation.” He rummaged in the fridge. “There you are.”

  “Wish I’d visited Maurice earlier.”

  “Maurice?”

  “Owns the newspaper.”

  “The Bugle?”

  “No. That was the first newspaper. Maurice’s father restarted it decades ago as The Chronicle. While I was there, he had a call from his reporter who is in Melbourne staying close to the coroner’s office.” Daphne closed the sandwich press. “Almost ready.”

  “Is there new information?”

  “I have no idea how the reporter even found this out but apparently talk is that the steak knife idea has legs. The type of wound fitted a knife not unlike those in the photo. And the angle indicated whoever wielded the knife was a little taller than Steve.”

  “Rules out Gina, Bertie, Lisa, Margaret. Not Bob though.” John collected plates. “How did the reporter find out? Sounds like information the police would keep to themselves.”

  Daphne shrugged. “Not up to speed on procedures. And the paper isn’t printing any of that yet. But Maurice asked me a lot of questions about the day.”

  “You were careful what you said?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  John smiled. “Sorry, doll.”

  “I was very careful. What you and I discuss is for our ears. But it didn’t hurt to tell him about the wonderful nurse who worked so hard on Steve, or the paramedics who really did their best. He already knew something about a missing phone so I mentioned seeing Steve take the call. Can’t see that it changes anything.”

  After lifting the golden toasted cheese sandwiches onto plates and slicing them, Daphne joined John at the table. “I’ve got enough time to do a quick read through of the ceremony and get changed.”

  “And I’ll get Bluebell all but ready to travel while you do.”

  “Not once you drop me off?”

  “To use your word? Negatory. I’ll wait outside and do a spot of genealogy research. Leaving you alone with those people is not an option, Daphne.”

  She smiled. It was nice to be cared for so much. “I’m sure they will all behave. But it is good to know you won’t be far if any of them show the slightest sign of being unkind. With a bit of luck, this farewell ceremony will go as smoothly as the Tanning’s did.”

  Beneath the table, Daphne crossed her fingers.

  Something to Hide

  There were half a dozen cars parked in the driveway and along the street near the Brooker’s house. John kissed Daphne’s cheek and promised to park where he could see her come out of the house, and made her promise to call or text him if she needed his help. She watched him drive fifty or so metres down the road, do a U-turn, and park beneath a tree. He flashed the headlights and she waved.

  Rather than going through the house, Daphne followed the sound of soft music, which led her to the pool.

  At the corner of the deck she abruptly halted, almost dropping her briefcase.

  This was the last place she’d expected to hold a farewell ceremony, yet a small group was gathered inside the pool area. The fence itself was decorated with white lilies, white roses, and lilac ribbons. The music was from a string trio seated in the furthest corner. Hanging from the eaves of the change room was a long, white dress and Daphne gasped in recognition.

  Lisa’s wedding dress.

  It swung back and forth, the mascara-stained top part of the lace visible even from the distance. Daphne shuddered. What kind of macabre event was she walking into.

  “Daphne!”

  Lisa’s squeal got everyone’s attention and all heads turned as she rushed through the gate. Margaret, Bob, Bertie. The bridesmaids. The groomsmen. And two more. Pat and Gina.

  Daphne’s stomach turned. If that woman said one thing…

  “We’ve made it so beautiful for my Steve.” Lisa slipped an arm through Daphne’s. “We have music, flowers, champagne, and you. What could be a better way to farewell my husband than this?”

  They went through the gate and Daphne stopped again. The pool was white. It looked as though milk had replaced water and she couldn’t see the bottom.

  “Isn’t this nice? As if he is a ghost swimming around in there and when my wedding dress is lowered into the water, it will become one with it and him. And with your beautiful words to send him off, Steve will be smiling. Somewhere.”

  If Lisa wasn’t holding onto her arm, Daphne would have turned and run. Heeled shoes and all. Her flight response was in full swing and it took several calming breaths to push down the panic. Margaret joined them, her face more solemn.

  “Daphne, dear. Thank you for staying in town to do this. It means so much to our Lisa.”

  Daphne blinked. Words weren’t coming but the other women didn’t seem to notice. She found herself swept along to the same podium she’d stood upon only a few days ago. This was creepy.

  Get a grip, Daph. It isn’t about you.

  Bob came forward to shake Daphne’s hand. Released by Lisa, who returned to her bridesmaids, Daphne forced a smile. Not
very successfully. Bob rolled his eyes as if to say he shared her sentiments. Or was he enjoying an inside joke only he knew? Another of his step-daughter’s husbands out of the way. Revenge for forcing him into a lifestyle he detested, or a way to prove he held the upper hand—either were reasons a murderer might rationalise.

  Nobody was above suspicion and only those with water-tight alibis were off the hook. Assuming they didn’t have a partner in crime.

  “Mrs Jones?”

  She blinked. Bob had his hand on her shoulder.

  “You look pale. Let’s get you out of the sun for a few minutes.”

  About to say she was fine, Daphne clamped her lips together as he led her to the buildings. The change room door was wide open, as was the one opposite which housed the cleaning equipment. Bob pulled a chair from the change room and placed it against the wall between the two facing doors.

  “I’ll get you some water.”

  Bob disappeared towards the house and Daphne sank onto the seat. Everyone else was occupied and she leaned forward to better see inside the other room. No sign of the groundsman…Dempster? Shelves on the far wall stored all manner of cleaning products. A series of white tubs, one with the word ‘Poison’ on the side. Chlorine and other water treatments, cleaning equipment, lots of tins of paint. Perhaps he’d been the one who repainted the inside of the house before the wedding.

  “Sorry, it’s a bit messy in there.”

  Daphne almost fell off the chair. She touched her chest over the heart.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you.” Carrying a long pole with a net on the end, Dempster stepped past. “Tend to keep the door closed so guests aren’t put off by the chemicals and stuff but Lisa wanted access in case she decides to change the colour of the pool at the last minute.”