by Vicki Tyley
“Yes, indeed. Right, the South Australia Police have checked around the holiday accommodation places in and around Melrose and Mt Remarkable and have come up with nothing to suggest your father is, or was ever, there. Which brings me to my second piece of news. Your father’s mobile phone has been found.”
“Just the phone? Where?”
“He wasn’t with it, if that’s what you mean. A kid found it in a Frankston park rubbish bin. His mother handed it into the local police.”
Frankston. The other sighting. Why there? Was he staying there or had he just been passing through?
Todd’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Dervla?”
“Hmmn.”
“I expect you to keep your end of the bargain.”
“Yes, sir!” She regretted it the instant the words were out of her mouth.
“You might not take murder seriously, but I do.” That steely edge was back.
Ouch. Not that she didn’t deserve it. “I do take it seriously. Very. Especially when it involves my family. It’s just that sometimes…” She paused. “Sometimes I say things I don’t mean.”
“Lie you mean?”
“God, no. I didn’t say that. There’s a long way between a facetious remark and lying.” Was she the only one who became flippant in stressful situations?
Todd huffed. “What—”
Brrring! Saved by the doorbell.
“Sorry. Have to go. Someone’s at the front door.” She hung up before he could reply.
Drawing a deep breath, she took a moment to compose herself and opened the door.
“Sophie.”
“The one and only.” Sophie, her long auburn hair twisted in a sleek knot above the collar of her cropped suit jacket, peered at her from above rimless sunglasses. “God, hon, you look dreadful. Has something else happened?”
“Thanks. That makes me feel so much better…” Her voice trailed off. An enormous bouquet of red and white flowers on legs was headed her way. Her jaw tensed. She’d recognize that swagger anywhere.
Sophie turned to see what she was looking at. “Someone loves you.”
Her arms folded, face set, Dervla steeled herself for battle.
The flowers came to a standstill. Roses. Dozens of them. Her heart lurched as she caught a whiff of their intoxicating fragrance. She blew out a breath.
Nathan’s head popped out from behind the oversized floral arrangement, his hair tousled as if he’d only just got out of bed. He beamed at her. “A welcoming committee. And I thought you didn’t care.”
“I don’t,” she said.
Not that her ex heard her. He was too busy eyeing up Sophie.
“Careful. You might trip over it.”
“What?”
“Your tongue.”
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Nathan asked, not taking his gaze off Sophie.
“No.”
He plucked a red rose from the bouquet and presented it to Sophie with a flourish. “Nathan Ward at your service.”
And like some tittering, lovelorn teenager Sophie took it, holding it under her nose as she batted those impossibly long eyelashes at him.
It was all Dervla could do to stop herself from gagging. “You haven’t changed at all.” With one last scowl at Nathan, she hustled Sophie inside.
“Babe, wait!”
Too little, too late. She slammed the door on him and his damned flowers. Way too late.
“I can see why you kept him to yourself,” Sophie said, twirling the rose.
Somehow Dervla resisted the urge to rip it from her friend’s fingers. “Don’t waste your time. He’s not worth it.”
Sophie followed Dervla through into the living room, kicking off her stiletto-heeled pumps in the doorway. “Oh, that’s better. Now, about that hunky man—”
“I mean it, Sophie. Stay as far away from him as you can.”
“Do I hear sour grapes?”
Dervla sighed, her eyes closing in a slow blink. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Anyway, I thought you were off men.”
The corner of Sophie’s mouth lifted in a lopsided grin. “Did I say that? Off some men.”
“And it’s the some men I’m most worried about,” Dervla said, referring to Sophie’s ex-husband.
“What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Besides, he doesn’t own me.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not the one who needs convincing. Remind me again why you had to get away.”
Sophie’s hand went to her throat. “He didn’t mean to hurt me.”
“God, Sophie, when are you going to stop making excuses for him? When you’re dead?”
CHAPTER 11
Dervla rifled through the contents of her wardrobe, staying busy the only way she knew to keep her grief at bay. What did you wear to the funeral of your half-siblings and their mother? Black seemed too oppressive to farewell such innocent young souls, but then any other color felt disrespectful. In the end, she settled on plain black trousers and a black-with-pink-pinstripe jacket, hanging the garments together at one end ready for the next day.
Before she could decide on the appropriate shoes, the doorbell rang. “What now?” she muttered, as she tossed aside a pair of platform shoes.
“I want to speak to my wife,” Martin Lombardi said, the instant she opened the door.
“Ex-wife you mean. She’s not here.”
“Soph!” He made to push past Dervla. “Get out of my way.”
“No,” she said, with more bravado than she felt. “No, I won’t. And I don’t care what you believe, Martin. Sophie isn’t here. If you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the police.”
His eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring. “What is it with you and her?” His lip curled, seconds ticking. “Oh, I get it. It just wasn’t enough for you to wreck my marriage – you had to fuck my wife, too. Fucking lesbos. You’re all the same.”
Lost for words – any words – she slammed the door in his face. She fumbled with the deadlock, her hands shaking.
“Hear this, bitch,” he shouted. “She loves me, not you.”
Dervla waited for the heavy footsteps to recede before releasing her breath. What Sophie had ever seen in that man in the first place was beyond her. As she reached for the phone to warn Sophie that her ex was on the rampage, the doorbell rang again.
Her heart hammering, she stared at the door, then back at the phone. “I’ve called the police,” she yelled.
“Dervla? What’s happened?” asked a muffled male voice. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, thank God.” Never had she been so glad to hear her ex-fiancé’s honeyed tones. She opened the door. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Who?” Frown lines marred his normally smooth forehead.
She shook her head. “It’s not important.”
“No? Then why the panic, babe?”
“I think you’ll find it’s called grief. My emotions are all over the place at the moment.” She forced a smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll survive.”
His frown deepened. “I have no doubt you will. But right now, you don’t look so good.”
“Still the same charmer, then.”
“You know what I mean,” he said, his voice hypnotic.
For one stupid, fleeting moment, she ached to be back in his arms.
But then he winked at her, breaking the spell. “Good to know someone else has taken my place on your least favorite people list.”
Her turn to frown.
“Well, you opened the door to me.”
“And now I’m closing it.”
“Wait.” He planted his foot in the doorway. “Your friend, Sophie, what’s her phone number?”
Dervla’s jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious.”
“Why not? Unless you’re jealous.”
Much to her dismay, she looked away.
He laughed. “You are.”
“Of course not. What do you take me for? A fool? No, I’m only looking out for a friend – a real friend.”
“Actions speak louder than words, Nathan.”
“Whatever. Are you going to give me her number or not?”
“Not.” She tried to shut the door, but his foot blocked it.
He shoved a business card through the opening. “Can you at least give her this and ask her to call me. If she’s interested.”
She took the card, knowing it was the only way he would remove his foot from the doorway.
“Thanks, babe,” he said, as she pushed against the door.
After she was sure he’d gone, she picked up the phone and headed to the back of the house, as far away from the front door as she could get. She dialed as she walked, Nathan’s business card pinned between two fingertips as if it were infectious. While she waited for the call to connect, she dropped the card into the kitchen’s pedal bin. She’d made no promises.
CHAPTER 12
Dervla’s heart thudded against her ribs, as desperate as the rest of her to flee. Wringing the large white handkerchief Emmet had pressed into her hands, she paused in the doorway, giving her eyes time to adjust to the gloom. After the heat and bright sunlight of outside, the funeral home’s chapel’s cool, sweet-scented air and subdued lighting were almost welcome.
Men and women, all dressed in dark colors, all with pinched faces, milled about her as if she didn’t exist. Perhaps she didn’t. Perhaps they didn’t.
A rotund middle-aged man jogged her elbow, muttering an apology as he squashed past.
She sucked in a long breath. Two years earlier, she’d been in an almost identical place. A week to the day after her mother had slashed her wrists and bled to death in a bathtub full of water. A week to the day after what would’ve been Warren and Cathleen Johns’ thirtieth wedding anniversary. That’s if her father hadn’t five years before deserted her mother for his pregnant young mistress. The same mistress whose body now lay mere meters from where Dervla stood.
Head bowed, she took a step and then another, each more difficult than the last. Halfway down the diamond-patterned carpet she stopped, and holding her breath, looked up.
Grief exploded in her chest, crushing her lungs, the pain more intense than she could ever have imagined. Nothing could’ve prepared her for the sight of the three white coffins, the middle one flanked with two child-sized ones.
She jammed a fist into her mouth. Atop the small coffin on the left, amid a mass of pink and white roses, calla lilies and orchids, sat Kayla’s favorite stuffed toy, an oversized teddy bear with a red satin heart stitched to its chest. Alongside it, on a glass stand, were the birthday girl’s fairy wings and tiara, its tiny gems glinting in the soft light.
On the other one, stood Monty, the pea-green dinosaur Oliver never went to sleep without. Parked next to it was Dervla’s little half-brother’s treasured yellow Tonka dump truck. Her last Christmas gift to him.
Toys and memories, all that was left of two young lives. No more birthdays. No more Christmases. No more anything. She bit down hard on her knuckles, tasting blood but feeling no pain.
Invisible hands propelled her forward, guiding her to the row of seats second from the front. Before she knew it, she was sitting down, her older brother on her right, her younger on her left.
Emmet touched her knee. “You okay?” he whispered.
She nodded, unable to trust herself to speak. She sought out her brothers’ hands and held tight. Sandwiched shoulder to shoulder between them, she couldn’t be sure who was supporting whom. But they were together and that was all that mattered.
The front pew was empty except for Lucinda’s parents. Or rather, Dervla assumed it was them. The man and woman hunched at the far end looked a lot older than the couple she’d met at the wedding. She felt a pang of guilt. These were Kayla and Oliver’s grandparents, yet she barely knew them. Nor did she recognize the majority of the people gathered to farewell her father’s wife and their two children. And she only had herself to blame.
As if reading her thoughts, Lucinda’s mother glanced back at her, a sad smile on her drawn face. Dervla tried to summon a response in kind but her facial muscles refused to comply. The woman – she couldn’t even remember her name – turned back to her husband.
The lights dimmed and music began to play. Céline Dion’s haunting voice filled the air, floating skyward like the angels she sang about. Dervla choked back a sob. Gabe squeezed her hand, Emmet doing the same with her left hand. She daren’t look at either of them.
A stout woman, her silver hair in a polished bob, stepped up to the podium. “Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal…”
The rest of the service passed in a suffocating daze, the air in the high-vaulted chapel getting heavier with each eulogy.
Just as the celebrant was winding up everything, a dark figure emerged from the shadows of a pillar and hurried along the wall. A low murmur rose from the congregation.
Dervla leapt to her feet, her first instinct that it was her father. Hands dragged at her arms. She shook them off, mumbling apologies as she squeezed past knees.
The figure disappeared through the double-doors with Todd Gleeson in pursuit and two steps behind him, DSC Brooke Stewart. Until then, Dervla hadn’t realized the police were even attending the funeral.
She hurried up the aisle after them, blinking as she emerged into the daylight. Before she could draw breath, a bevy of reporters and cameramen converged.
“Over here! Ms Johns, do you know where your father is?”
“Has he contacted you?”
“Do you think your father is guilty?”
“Will you stand by him?”
The questions continued, but she’d stopped listening. Two Roman columns more suited to a coliseum than a funeral home flanked the entrance. She clambered unladylike up onto the concrete plinth of one, holding on for dear life as she scoped the gardens, car park and beyond. Both the mystery man and the two detectives had disappeared.
She glanced toward the ground, wondering how she was going to get down again, then back up, her gaze straying to the car park. Her heart skipped a beat. A bald-headed man lounged against a white station wagon, watching her. Was Nathan right? Was the so-called reporter stalking her?
CHAPTER 13
Funerals were supposed to provide closure. So why did it feel as if her chest had been sliced open? Even breathing hurt. With a groan, Dervla rolled over, forcing herself out of bed and into the shower. Sleep or no sleep, she had to keep going.
Twenty minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom, her body at least cleansed. Caffeine was needed to kick-start it. When she emptied the old coffee grounds into the kitchen’s pedal bin, she remembered Nathan’s business card and salvaged it. As much as she hated the idea of her ex and her girlfriend getting involved, she knew it wasn’t her decision to make. Life was too short for second-guessing. She wiped coffee from the card and set it on the bench to dry.
After two industrial-strength espressos, she felt halfway human and ready to face the outside world. Or at least a friend.
Sophie leased a serviced office on Victoria Street, a short tram ride away. Dervla spent more time waiting for the tram than on it, arriving at the mid-rise black and glass office building a few minutes before noon. She pushed through the main doors, the cool, faintly citrus-scented air inside welcome relief from the midday heat, and headed straight for the lifts.
Emerging on the second floor, she waved at the smiley-faced receptionist, gesturing down the corridor to her left to indicate she knew where she was going. The door to Sophie’s office stood ajar. Dervla knocked and poked her head through.
Sophie spun around in her chair, her phone to her ear, and motioned Dervla in.
Though not large, the office exuded success. From the Robert Jacks original abstract adorning one of the smoky-grey walls, to the bronze sculpture of two entwined hands atop the filing cabinet, to the black leather cantilevered chairs, to th
e suited PR consultant herself.
After Sophie finished her call, she rose from behind her desk. “How are you, hon?” she asked, as she joined Dervla on the other side and embraced her.
Dervla rocked her hand from side to side.
“Hey,” Sophie said, “what do you say to lunch at that new Greek place around the corner?”
“Can I take a raincheck?”
“You have to eat.”
“I had a late breakfast.”
Sophie shot her a yeah-right look. “At least let me make you a coffee,” she said, already crossing to the slimline beech bench just inside the door before Dervla could refuse.
Unlike Dervla’s coffee machine, the silver Saeco was fully automated. In less than a minute, it had produced two steaming espressos, the crema perfect on each.
“Thanks.” Dervla set the coffee on the edge of the desk and sank into one of the leather chairs. “I didn’t see you at the funeral.”
“Sorry, hon. But with Martin on my case, I thought it best to stay away. The last thing you and your family would have needed is for him to turn up and start causing a scene. I was with you in spirit, though.”
Dervla nodded and sipped her coffee. Her empty stomach contracted, threatening to rebel. She set the cup down again. “Talking of exes…” She delved into her handbag and withdrew Nathan’s business card. “Nathan asked me to give you this. What you do with it is up to you.”
At the sight of the warped, coffee-stained card, the corner of Sophie’s mouth lifted. “Something tells me it wasn’t like this when he gave it to you.”
“It had a small accident.”
Sophie laughed. “And you rescued it?”
Dervla gave a half-hearted shrug. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“I thought you didn’t want me to have anything to do with him.”
She shrugged again. “You’re both consenting adults.”
“Blah, who needs men, anyway?” Sophie handed the card back. “As you said, they’re more trouble than they’re worth.” Her green eyes twinkled. “Besides, you know cast-offs aren’t really my style, no matter how hunky.”