Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set

by Rodney Strong

  Seventeen

  Holy…

  ‘John Strong,’ Oliver repeated.

  Amanda nodded, then looked at him sharply. ‘Are you familiar with him?’

  ‘I’ve recently become aware of his work.’

  (This is getting weirder by the minute.)

  Amanda seemed like she wanted to ask a follow up question, then changed her mind. ‘The story goes he was a failed artist. A good one, but he was trying to make a living during the depression and the second world war, neither of which was a good time to convince people they needed a painting for their lounge walls. Rumour has it he resorted to trading paintings for things, like food, shelter…’

  Sex.

  ‘After the war things started picking up in the art scene, but he still struggled. One day he saw a story in the local paper about an artist who just sold a painting for a record price. A week later he took a painting by the same artist into a gallery and sold it for enough to live on for six months. By the time anyone figured out it was a forgery John had done a runner.’

  ‘And that’s what he did with “Sunset over the Island?”’

  Amanda nodded, braked for a fraction of a second to avoid collecting a ticket from the speed camera on the side of the motorway, then accelerated away again.

  ‘The websites I read said the painting had been missing for decades. Where did you get it from?’

  ‘That’s not the issue right now.’

  Oliver snorted. ‘That’s exactly the issue. Thanks to you we both have people coming after us – people who seem to think the painting belongs to them – so obviously, you stole it. But who from?’

  ‘I didn’t steal it, not technically.’ Amanda slowed down as they came to the tunnel at the end of the motorway. Traffic was backed up and she was forced to come almost to a stop.

  (What does she mean not technically?)

  ‘Give me a chance to ask,’ he muttered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. What do you mean not technically?’

  ‘I persuaded someone to give it to me. It’s hardly my fault that they weren’t aware of its real value.’

  Oliver sifted through her words. ‘You mean you conned them.’

  ‘Con is an ugly word,’ she replied primly, then spoiled it with a sly smile.

  Oliver stared out the window at the numbers on the side of the tunnel. Something was bothering him. Actually a lot was bothering him, but he was prioritising.

  ‘I still find it hard to believe that a John Strong forgery is worth so much more than the original artist.’

  ‘It isn’t, on its own – it’s probably worth fifty thousand. But if you put it together with the nine other forgeries he did, then the entire collection is worth a fortune.’

  (I wonder if that means my painting is worth something?)

  Not the time.

  (Come on, it would be wonderful to think my naked body is worth something.)

  I don’t want to think about your naked body.

  (What’s wrong with my body!)

  Nothing’s wrong with it, it was very nice.

  (Nice! Do you know nothing about woman? Nice, indeed.)

  Oliver felt the ever-present headache move its way forward.

  ‘Still with me Oliver?’ Amanda interrupted.

  ‘Why only take one of the paintings then? If they’re worth more together then why not take them all?’

  ‘Because I only needed the one,’ she replied matter-of-factly.

  ‘Oh, sure,’ he said, like she’d explained everything.

  ‘Oliver, there are certain things you need to know now, and certain things later, and there are some things you never need to know.’

  ‘Now you’re out of jail…’

  She held up a manicured finger. ‘Technically I wasn’t in jail.’

  He waved his own hand. ‘Whatever. Why do you still need me? Just call up Victor and tell him you lied, tell him I had nothing to do with it.’

  She nodded slowly, then glanced across at him. ‘I could, but right now I need your help.’

  Frustrated, Oliver stared out the window at the bustle of the city. People laughing and talking and shopping, and probably none of them driving around with a con artist, on the hunt for a murderer.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I’m working on the assumption that the people I conned didn’t steal the painting back, otherwise there’d be no need to visit you. So we need to search in a different direction.’ She studied him critically. ‘You’re not dressed for it, but it can’t be helped.’

  ‘Amanda, where are we going?’ he asked again.

  ‘To pay our respects to the victim’s family.’

  Oliver stared at her. ‘And say what? We think one of you killed Peter Yarrow?’

  ‘We probably won’t use those exact words, but essentially, yes.’

  ‘I’m not comfortable with that,’ Oliver told her.

  (You’d better get comfortable – we need to do whatever it takes.)

  ‘No time for your comfort Oliver, we’re here.’

  They were parked outside a brand-new townhouse, that was sandwiched between two old wooden houses. There appeared to be a hundred years between the old and new, and while the more recent building was subtle in shape and colour, it seemed to be suggesting to its neighbours that they might want to buck up their ideas.

  ‘What’s our cover story?’ he asked nervously as they stood outside the front door.

  She pressed the door bell, then reached over and smoothed Oliver’s hair down. ‘I’ve always found a version of the truth to be the best.’

  Before he could reply the front door opened. A young woman gave them with a bored expression. She was in her late teens, average height and slightly overweight, and wore dark clothes. ‘Yes?’

  Amanda adopted a solemn expression. ‘Hello, you must be Samantha. I’m Violet Tumbelton…’

  (Liar!)

  Enough already.

  ‘…and I’m so sorry about your uncle.’

  Samantha studied them both, then shrugged and wandered away.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Oliver asked.

  Amanda answered by stepping into the house. Oliver hesitated, then followed her in.

  The narrow hallway was well lit and cluttered with small wooden tables displaying the same type of small ugly objects that Oliver had seen in the shop. Paintings and photos were hung at intervals and several doors led off the space. Samantha disappeared through one, slamming it shut behind her.

  ‘How do you know Samantha?’ Oliver muttered.

  ‘I did my homework,’ Amanda replied. She also seemed to have researched the house, since she went straight to the door at the end of the hall and opened it.

  Two women sat at a dining room table, glasses of wine in front of them. The almost empty bottle suggested they were well past their first drink of the day. One woman had shoulder-length blonde hair, glasses, and a flushed face, while the other had long dark hair, and a face that showed similarities to Samantha. Her arm was around her friend.

  ‘Mrs Yarrow –,’ Amanda addressed the blonde. ‘– I hope you don’t mind. Samantha let us in.’

  The widow gave them an uncertain look, while her friend scowled.

  ‘Who are you? It’s not a good time.’

  ‘I can see where Samantha gets her charm from Ms Fowler.’

  Mrs Yarrow smothered a grin and beckoned them to sit down. ‘I’m Charlotte, and this is Kristin. Were you friends of Peter?’ She addressed the question to Oliver, who didn’t know how to respond.

  ‘Recent acquaintances.’ Amanda stepped in smoothly. ‘Peter was advising me on the sale of some items I’d recently acquired. I’m Violet, and my associate is Oliver.’

  (Say something!)

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

  Charlotte gave him a grateful smile.

  ‘What do you want?’ Kristin demanded.

  ‘Oh no, it’s far too early for a wine for me thank you.’

  �
�I didn’t...!’

  ‘A cup of tea would be lovely though, don’t you think Oliver?’

  Oliver nodded and then realised her look meant something else.

  ‘I’ll make it shall I?’ He leapt up from his seat.

  ‘I’ll show you where things are,’ Charlotte offered. She led him through another door and pointed to a cupboard while she switched on the kettle. He retrieved four mugs and placed them on the bench. Charlotte raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I’m sorry, I just thought you might like one too.’

  Charlotte adjusted her glasses and rubbed the side of her face. ‘It probably is time to stop drinking. I don’t usually imbibe this early in the day.’

  (She’s lying.)

  How do you know?

  (How do you not know?)

  ‘It must be a difficult time.’

  Charlotte pulled the box of tea bags from a shelf, and two teaspoons from a drawer. She leaned on the bench, her shoulders sagging and Oliver had a chance to observe her more closely. Under the alcohol-induced flush her face was pale and drawn, apart from the dark smudges under her eyes. She constantly played with her glasses, pushing them up her nose, then squinting. She wore blue tracksuit pants and a plain T-shirt, and her hair appeared carelessly brushed.

  ‘It’s all surreal, you know? Sure, Peter could be a prick – like all men. I’m sure you’re a prick to your wife sometimes right?’

  Oliver wasn’t sure what he was expected to say.

  ‘But he was just a tiny prick, not big enough to get him killed.’

  The kettle switched off and Oliver put a teabag into each cup and filled the cups with water. ‘So you husband didn’t have any enemies?’

  Charlotte laughed, then promptly dropped her eyes guiltily at the display of humour. ‘God, no – Peter attracted friends, not murderers. Do you or your friend take milk?’

  Oliver had no idea how Amanda took her tea, or even if she drank it. ‘Yes, for both of us, please.’

  Charlotte made herself busy stirring the drinks. ‘Besides, he wasn’t even supposed to be there. He normally never went to the shop after hours.’

  Oliver accepted a cup from her and blew on the steam. ‘So why was he there?’

  Charlotte frowned and stared out the window at the tiny backyard, which looked out onto other tiny backyards. ‘He’d been doing some research, and suddenly he got very excited and said he had to go to the shop and check on something.’

  ‘What was he researching?’

  (You know.)

  ‘It could have been anything,’ he said firmly.

  Charlotte glanced at him in confusion for answering his own question. ‘That’s right, it could have been anything. I wasn’t paying attention – it was late, and I was tired.’ She stumbled on the last word.

  (She was drunk.)

  Oliver was inclined to agree with her.

  ‘Anyway I told the police all this, and they took away the laptop, which is inconvenient. But if it helps catch his killer,’ she hastily added. ‘Shall we take the drinks in?’

  When they got back into the dining room Kristin was gone. Charlotte gazed around expectantly, as if waiting for her friend to pop out from behind a curtain and say “Boo”. Amanda stood at the tall display cabinet which rested against one wall. It was filled with more small silver and china pieces.

  ‘Where’s Kristin?’ Charlotte asked.

  Amanda turned to face them and accepted her cup of tea with a grateful smile. ‘Oh, she had to nip out for a bit. She’ll be back later.’

  Charlotte hesitantly sat back in the same chair as before. Amanda sat down opposite her.

  ‘So Charlotte, how long have you and Kristin been having an affair?’

  Eighteen

  Tea stuck in Oliver’s throat and he erupted into a coughing fit, which Amanda ignored.

  Charlotte’s hand flew to her mouth. For an instant panic crossed her face, then she recovered and adjusted her glasses. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I’m not judging, you understand – I’ve been known to dabble occasionally. But I’m assuming the police don’t know?’

  Charlotte seemed about to protest some more, then she waved her hand. ‘Fine – yes, it’s true, and no, the police don’t know anything about it. It’s none of their business.’

  ‘Even if it gives her a motive to kill your husband?’

  Charlotte appeared shocked.

  (This is fun.)

  I have no idea what the hell is going on.

  Amanda looked Oliver. ‘Why don’t you go have a word with Samantha while us girls have a talk.’ She winked conspiratorially at Charlotte, who blushed.

  Still horribly confused, Oliver obediently left the room and went in search of Samantha. He went through the same door she’d disappeared through before. It turned out to be the lounge, where Samantha was slumped on the couch watching a music channel. The volume was up loud enough to make the television quiver, as if in shock, at the man rapping about his boo and her fugly haps.

  (Now I have no idea what’s going on. What’s a fugly haps?)

  ‘I have no idea what a fugly haps is,’ Oliver said.

  Samantha sneered at him with teenage contempt. ‘You’re old, of course you don’t understand.’

  (I knew someone just like her once.)

  Oliver sat on the chair, leaving Samantha the entire couch. She switched her attention back to the television, already blocking out his existence.

  (She was a bitch too.)

  Oliver studied the closed-off nature of her face and body. It was hard to tell if she was grieving or just being a moody teenager. Apart from black, the only colour she wore was a dark pink nail polish.

  ‘How are you doing, …you know, with your uncle’s death.’

  She gave him a scornful look. ‘Like you care.’

  She’s not going to tell me anything, he thought helplessly. Violet made a suggestion and he changed tack.

  ‘You’re right, I don’t care, I was just being polite.’

  That was mean.

  (Were you ever a teenage girl? I was. Trust me.)

  Samantha’s eyes widened and a smile flitted across her face transforming her appearance, before she remembered herself and the sullen expression slid back into place.

  ‘I didn’t know your uncle either. For all I know he was just a fat-head.’

  ‘He was not! Uncle Peter was cool,’ Samantha snapped.

  Oliver leaned forward. ‘Then help me find out who killed him.’

  ‘Who are you? You’re not a cop, that’s for sure.’

  ‘I’m someone who has a vested interest in finding out who killed him.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  (Just tell her. No one will believe her if she repeats it.)

  Everything?

  (Why not?)

  Oliver told her everything – or almost everything. When it came down to it he couldn’t let her know about Violet riding around in his head.

  After he’d finished Samantha seemed genuinely interested. ‘Wow, it’s just like TV.’

  ‘A little,’ Oliver admitted.

  Samantha thought for a moment. ‘You should probably talk to Mum then – she might have done it.’

  (Throwing her own mother to the wolves.)

  It’s cold.

  (No, I like it.)

  ‘Wasn’t Peter her brother?’

  ‘Yeah, but mum and Aunty Charlotte were sleeping together.’

  ‘You know?’ Oliver asked in surprise.

  ‘Of course,’ she snorted. ‘They just think I don’t pay attention.’

  ‘Did Peter know?’

  She laughed. ‘He’d have to be stupid not to. They weren’t exactly subtle.’

  ‘So your mum killed Peter to get Charlotte all to herself?’

  Samantha laughed again. ‘Well that and all the money.’

  ‘What money?’

  ‘Mum is a silent partner in the store and Uncle Peter’s will states that if he dies A
unt Charlotte gets to keep the business, but Mum gets to sell the three most expensive things in it and keep the money.’

  Oliver thought it over. ‘That’s a strange clause.’

  Samantha shrugged, suddenly bored.

  (She doesn’t seem too upset about her uncle’s death does she?)

  Maybe she’s hiding it beneath a façade of indifference?

  (I think you’re giving her too much credit.)

  The girl ramped up the volume on the television signalling the conversation was over. Oliver left, arriving in the hallway at the same time as Amanda.

  ‘Time to go,’ she said. They went to the front door and opened it, only to come face to face with Detective Wilson.

  The policeman raised an eyebrow and allowed himself a brief smile. ‘Ms Tumbleton, Mr Atkinson, what an absolute pleasure seeing you here.’

  Amanda must be a hell of a poker player, because she expressed no emotion at Detective Wilson’s reaction. However, Oliver’s card games were limited to Snap or Go Fish these days, so confusion and surprise were plainly on display.

  ‘Seeing you and Ms Tumbleton together reinforces my theory about this case. And seeing you here is like a thick layer of chocolate icing on top.’

  ‘We were just paying our respects to the widow, as any decent, honest, law abiding citizen would do Detective,’ came Amanda’s response.

  ‘Together?’ Detective Wilson replied.

  ‘We’re both here,’ Amanda said.

  He studied them, spending more time on Oliver, perhaps viewing him as the weak link. Oliver held his gaze for a moment then wilted and looked at his feet, feeling heat rise from his neck and into his cheeks.

  Detective Wilson stepped aside to let them pass. Oliver glanced back to see the policeman regarding him with curiosity.

  ‘Keep walking Oliver,’ Amanda muttered.

  He stayed silent until they were in the car, and had pulled into traffic.

  ‘You realise he’s in there right now asking Charlotte what we were doing there.’

  ‘Of course he is, and nothing she says is incriminating to us.’

  Oliver sagged back.

  ‘It’s probably just as well Kristin wasn’t still there though,’ Amanda added.

  ‘Why’s that?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘Because she might have interpreted some words I said as a threat.’