No More Secrets No More Lies

by Amos, Gina

  ‘Don’t you ever sleep?’

  Jill smiled at his remark and realised she wasn’t the only one to take her job seriously. ‘And don’t you ever relax?’ she said, as she stared at the financial papers in his lap.

  William looked at the papers and dropped them to the floor. He turned off the television, switched off his phone and placed it inside the top drawer of his bedside table.

  ‘How are you William, I was just on my way home to have breakfast. It’s been one of those nights. But you’re looking a lot brighter than what I expected. Constable French filled me in on what happened last night.’

  ‘I feel a lot better. I’ll probably be out of here tomorrow.’

  That’s good news,’ she said.

  ‘Pull up a chair.’ William indicated to the chair tucked in a corner of the room. ‘Like a biscuit?’

  Jill smiled and shook her head. She dragged the grey vinyl armchair up to the side of the bed, sat down next to him and took out her note book and pen from her shoulder bag.

  ‘That looks official,’ William said, as he looked at the note book in her lap and took a bite of the biscuit.

  ‘Oh, sorry, force of habit,’ she said as she returned the notepad to her bag. ‘William, I’ve got some more bad news to tell you, I’m afraid.’

  The blood from William’s face drained. ‘What’s happened now? It seems that every time I see you, you’ve got bad news to tell me.’ He couldn’t imagine that things could get much worse. A timely knock at the door allowed William a moment to prepare himself for whatever it was he was about to hear from Jill Brennan. They both watched as a young male orderly entered the room and collected William’s completed menu sheet. The orderly placed a bottle of spring water on his bedside table and left. William moved the table tray to one side and hoisted himself into a comfortable position so he was sitting upright. He locked onto Jill’s eyes. ‘Well go on then, tell me. What’s happened now?’

  Jill looked back at William and remembered the first day she met him. He looked so different now, a lot softer, more vulnerable somehow. ‘We’ve arrested Tommy Dwyer on two counts of attempted murder and two counts of murder.’

  William looked at Jill, puzzled.

  ‘Rose, and Isabelle Dwyer. He’s confessed to everything,’ she said. Jill waited for William to say something, but he just stared at her. He didn’t say a word. He was processing the information, his biscuit fell from his hand into his coffee cup, dissolving and disappearing without a trace.

  ‘But you said two attempted murders?’ William was confused. ‘So he tried to kill me right? But who...?’

  ‘Suellyn,’ Brennan said simply.

  William raised his eyebrows in disbelief and held the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger and massaged his nose gently. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Your wife went to the hotel where Tommy Dwyer was staying and confronted him. She asked him about the contents of the letter his mother had written to Rose. It appears he realised that it was no use lying to her anymore when she accused him of murdering both his mother and Rose and also trying to murder you. When we questioned him, he told us that he planned to marry Suellyn after he killed you. That way he would get his hands on both inheritances at the same time, but Suellyn became suspicious and began to suspect him of murdering Isabelle and Rose and trying to murder you. He knew he couldn’t trust her to keep her mouth shut and that’s when he decided to kill her. I suppose he thought he had already killed two women, another one wouldn’t make any difference. At that point he thought he could still work his way out of the corner he had backed himself into. If he killed Suellyn, disposed of her body with the idea that nobody would really miss her, when questioned over the matter of the incident in the steam room, he was going to point the finger in Suellyn’s direction because he was sure there was no evidence to incriminate him. Dead men or in this case, dead women tell no tales. She was the scapegoat if you like. With you and Suellyn both out of the way, your share of Rose’s inheritance would go to him. We don’t know if he had plans to get rid of the other beneficiary, Kevin Taggart.’

  Jill looked at William.

  William didn’t say a word. He took a long, deep mouthful of coffee and closed his eyes.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  A buff coloured envelope arrived from the solicitor in the morning post. It was addressed to Mr Kevin Taggart.

  Kevin ripped the envelope open. With wild eyes he scanned the letter from Martin Bartholomew and after reading the contents, he let the A4 page fall from his hands, watching it as it landed gently on the kitchen table. He bent over and picked up the envelope which had fallen onto the floor, looked inside and pulled out the cheque, studying it closely. The texture and the amount written on the cheque made his heart beat faster and his hands tremble. He held it tightly, close to his face and breathed deeply as if he could smell his newly acquired wealth. When he released his breath which he had been holding, he extended his arms in front of him and screamed a jubilant scream at the top of his voice. After regaining his composure, his breathing returned to normal and he found himself looking at the cheque. He studied it for some time and became entranced by the thick dollar sign and the sturdy strokes of Mr Bartholomew’s handwriting. He was captivated by the roundness of the three and the symmetry of the five zeros which followed it. The comma separating the digits resembled a tadpole - its tail casually dropping below the thin printed line, the punctuation mark delineated the numbers and emphasized the cheque’s value. Then the spell was broken. Kevin scavenged through the cutlery drawer in search of a fridge magnet; a souvenir from a day trip to a Reptile Park on the Central Coast. He attached the magnet to the cheque and placed it on the fridge. Then he took a step back from it and admired it in the same way he would a piece of art.

  ‘Good old Rose, I knew she would come through for me. After all, that’s what good neighbours are for,’ he laughed hysterically.

  Kevin decided a celebration was called for, but there was no one he could think of that he wanted to share his good fortune with. He opened the fridge door and grabbed a bottle of full strength beer.‘Here’s to you Mother dear, what a shame you aren’t here to share in my good fortune.’ Kevin twisted the screw cap, lifted it to his lips and threw back a large mouthful of the icy cold brew. He swallowed hard. With the bottle of beer still in his hand, Kevin returned to his studio and tuned into his favourite station. He listened to the classical music playing. The uplifting music settled him and he reached into his paint box and selected a tube of red acrylic paint and immediately concentrated on the blank canvas sitting on the easel before him. He circled the easel slowly, just as a predator would who was studying its prey before pouncing, looking at it from different angles, deciding where he should place the first stroke. The starkness of the white canvas beckoned him and finally he found the courage to begin. He took a deep breath, dabbed at the paint on the palette and made the first brush stroke. The sable brush glided over the canvas. A narrow, soft ray of autumn sunshine hit the window and Kevin realised how happy and how extremely grateful he was for the bounties which had been bestowed upon him.

  He recited Cicero. ‘A thankful heart is not only the greatest virtue, but the parent of all the other virtues.’

  The weather was deteriorating. Kevin stood at the window with his paint brush in his hand and looked up at the darkening sky. A line of heavy clouds filed in from the west and extinguished the remaining light. To continue painting was impossible.

  A torn Chesty Bonds singlet splattered with a kaleidoscope of colours lay draped on the table where Kevin stored his brushes, crayons and lead pencils. He dipped his brush in a jar of clean water and wiped it dry. Time for lunch. His stomach demanded food and he walked up the hall into the kitchen.

  Lunch was a slice of wholemeal toast on a stark white round dinner plate swamped with a can of cold baked beans. Kevin looked down at his plate and imagined a more sumptuous fare. Perhaps grilled Tasmanian salmon with a light salad and polenta
chips on the side. Kevin Taggart had a feeling that things were about to change in his life, he had a feeling in his bones. He devoured the baked beans and the soggy toast and began to make a mental list of the things he wanted do with his windfall. A holiday first he thought, an extended tour of the Tuscan hill towns and then perhaps a side trip to Florence to paint the clay roofs and of course, a visit to the Uffizi Gallery. He might even take a Mediterranean cruise.

  The house was quiet. Seated on a vinyl chair at his kitchen table he began to daydream. He looked critically at the outdated kitchen. It had never bothered him before, but now that he had some money to spend, he realised how drab and out of fashion it had become. It needed renovating; the once white paint on the kitchen cupboards and drawers had yellowed with age. The paint was peeling. The small rectangular ‘mission brown’ tiles on the splashbacks were a mistake of the seventies. They looked dull and dirty after years of accumulated grime. The open timber shelves on the kitchen wall displayed his late mother’s best crockery set or at least the pieces that had survived the service of the years. A rusty nail on the side of the shelves held his house and car keys. A handy location when he was in a hurry to leave the house.

  A loud thump and the sound of metal scraping against concrete brought Kevin to his feet. He walked towards the front of the house and entered his bedroom. Dirty, grey crumpled sheets lay at the foot of his bed. A pile of art books lay scattered on the floor under the window. He stepped over them and looked out between the slats of the rusty venetian blinds. He opened a row with his thumb and index finger and roughly wiped away years of accumulated dust as he looked out at the scene across the street.

  Three solidly built Maoris were loading the contents of the house into a beaten-up, bottle green removalist truck which was parked in front of the Blake house. ‘Three Men and a Green Truck’ was spray painted in white lettering on the side of the truck and a tall, slim, middle aged man stood beside it, calling instructions to the three men. He was wearing a pair of beige cotton chinos and a yellow polo shirt. A New York Yankees baseball cap was perched on the top of his head to shade his eyes from the sun. A relative, a nephew perhaps? He was too well dressed to be from the removalist company, Kevin thought.

  A procession of furniture trailed out from the house. Rhoda’s prized carved timber sideboard was rolled down the front steps on a trolley and came to rest on the footpath along with the fridge, the microwave oven and the boxes of household items. Kevin recognised his painting, North Coast Summers. It was leaning up against the gum tree in front of the house and he decided he would contact Mr Martin Bartholomew, the executor of the sisters’ estates, and ask for it back. The youngest and fittest looking of the trio, scratched his head as he considered how best to pack the truck.

  Kevin looked at the women’s possessions parked on the footpath and a rush of sentiment descended upon him. He watched two of the men carry out the red, lumpy lounge by its ends, and walk it up the metal plank at the rear of the truck. He remembered the afternoons and evenings he had spent sitting on the lounge and the smell and taste of cheap sherry sprang to mind. The matching red chairs were loaded next and carried by the shortest of the three men, whose thick biceps were covered in dark blue traditional Maori tattoos.

  Kevin stood behind the Venetian slats observing the scene for some time before deciding a better view was to be had outside. He walked down the hallway past the kitchen and out through the back door, down the concrete steps to where he kept his gardening equipment in a galvanized steel tool box. He picked out a pair of garden clippers and walked up the driveway to the front fence. As the blades chomped into the overgrown Moraya hedge, he looked across at the men who had now stopped work for lunch. They were sitting under the gum tree, with a large eski propped open, they were drinking beer from cans, eating home made sandwiches made from thick bread and laughing, obviously relaxed in each other’s company. The well dressed man had left and Kevin observed that his painting was nowhere to be seen. It had already been loaded onto the truck.

  After lunch was eaten and the last of the cardboard boxes was loaded, Kevin watched the three men as they packed themselves into the front seat of the truck. The blare of country and western music from the local radio station, and the grating of the gears as they changed from first to second and then to third, trailed behind the truck as it lumbered up Eden Street. He wondered where the sisters’ possessions were being taken and what was to become of them. He hoped his painting wouldn’t end up in a charity store or on a rubbish tip. He would explain to Mr Bartholomew that the painting was his and that he would like it returned. He would ask him who he should speak to.

  Kevin assumed that the house had been sold even though a ‘For Sale’ sign had not appeared at the front of the house. After the interest which had been shown in Rose’s house, he wouldn’t be surprised if a disappointed potential buyer had been rewarded for their patience by the sudden listing of the brick bungalow across the street.

  Kevin returned inside, sat down at the kitchen table and contemplated the value of the Blake sisters’ estate. He took a deep and satisfied breath and tried to control his excitement as he looked forward to the arrival of another letter, and another cheque, from Mr Martin Bartholomew.

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  (Twelve Months Later)

  Kevin Taggart stood with his arms crossed in front of his chest watching the small crowd of art lovers admiring his work. Another champagne cork hit the ceiling and Jill Brennan’s shrill laugh bounced off the walls and crossed the room to where he was standing in a corner by himself.

  ‘Here’s to Kevin,’ Jill raised her champagne flute in his direction and smiled.

  Kevin looked down at the floor and studied his feet. He wasn’t enjoying this as much as he thought he would. But he couldn’t disguise the pride he felt as he looked at his art on the broad white walls of the gallery which was located in a busy, tree lined street in a trendy part of the eastern suburbs. The crowd had started arriving half an hour earlier and the response had been more than he and Jill had hoped for.

  Suellyn Phillips also raised her glass to Kevin and smiled at him from across the opposite side of the room. The plunging neckline of her above the knee black cocktail dress revealed a round and firm cleavage. She was holding a catalogue in one hand and a glass of bubbly in the other. She stood in front of his painting, The Red Lounge and leaned forward to study the brush strokes in an attempt to unravel the secrets of his techniques.

  Rimis had a beer in his hand and walked up behind Kevin and slapped him hard on the back.

  ‘Congratulations Kevin old son. I hope there aren’t any bad feelings. Just doing my job you know.’

  ‘No hard feelings, Detective Senior Sergeant. I do realise that you were only doing your job and I hope you now realise that I was only doing what I thought was my job? That was to take care of the elderly people in Eden Street.’

  Rimis smiled. He really had thought Kevin had murdered the Blake sisters but there was no evidence to prove it. What quality of life did they have anyway? The younger sister, Edi Blake was practically non compus-mentis. But Kevin did all right out of it. Managed to score another three hundred grand from the sisters and got his painting back. He looked over at North Coast Summers. It held pride of place on an easel in the middle of the room.

  When he entered the painting in the Wynne Prize, Kevin never imagined in his wildest dreams that he had a chance of winning the coveted award. North Coast Summers was recognised by a panel of judges to be the best landscape painting of Australian scenery in watercolours by an Australian artist. Winning the prize which had a dollar value of twenty-five thousand dollars attached to it, catapulted Kevin into the heady and exciting art world with all its snobbery and pretension.

  Rimis walked up to Jill and planted a kiss on her left cheek. He looked across at Kevin who was discussing a painting with an interested buyer and Jill followed his eyes as Rimis leant into her. Without taking his eye off Kevin, he said in a deep whisper,
‘I might not know much about art Brennan, but I know a villain when I see one.’

  Rimis adjusted his tie. ‘Hope you made the right decision. Why you decided to give up the world of crime for this, I never could figure,’ he said a little too loudly. He looked at the people milling around in small groups, sipping champagne and pretending to know what good art looked like.

  ‘I know I did.’ She winked at him and excused herself when she saw William talking with Ashleigh Taylor.

  Rimis looked around the room searching for Suellyn Phillips. He loved the dress. He decided she wasn’t as stuck up and neurotic as he first thought. There was a lot to admire about Suellyn Phillips. She had been brave to take on Tommy Dwyer and Rimis noticed that she was becoming the life of the party. Since he had been watching her, she had thrown back three glasses of French champagne.

  As soon as he walked through the front door of the gallery, William searched the crowd for Jill. When he spotted her she was talking with her old boss and he decided he would wait for her to approach him, rather than interrupt her.

  He had his back to her now and was looking through the catalogue with Ashleigh Taylor. Jill walked up to him and placed her hand gently on the sleeve of his cashmere jumper and noticed that it brought out the colour of his eyes when he turned around and looked at her. ‘Hello William. I’m glad you could come. It’s been a long time.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’

  ‘Hello Doctor Taylor. I hope you’re enjoying the exhibition?’ Jill Brennan asked.

  ‘I am, thanks. Excuse me will you? I want to go and speak to Kevin while he’s free.’

  William Phillips stared into Jill’s eyes and felt a stirring of emotion. God, she was beautiful. Now that his divorce from Suellyn was Decree Absolute he was planning to see a lot more of Jill Brennan. Perhaps they even had a future together. He hoped so. They had a lot in common.