Bitter Nothings

by Vicki Tyley

  While she rummaged in her handbag, trying to recall what she’d done with John Bailey’s business card, Todd wandered around with his hands in his pockets. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him sidle towards the vase of lilies and gerberas on the dining table, peer into blooms and nod. His posture stiffened, though, as he took in the flowers and card from Harry on the countertop. He moved away.

  By the time she remembered where she’d put the business card, Todd was standing at the glass doors staring out at the courtyard. Outside the late sun bathed everything in soft gold.

  Ducking into her office, she spotted the card on the desk next to the keyboard straight away. She scribbled the details on a piece of paper and returned to the living room.

  Todd was standing where she left him.

  “He’s expecting your call,” she said, folding the notepaper and handing it to him.

  One eyebrow arched. “You’ve spoken to him?”

  “Only briefly.”

  He gave a nod and glanced away. His fingers caressed the crease in the paper. “I want you to know that I’m going to do everything within my power to ensure your family’s killer is brought to justice.”

  He drew a deep breath. “I realize that this is probably neither the time nor the place, but after this is all over, I hope you’ll…” He hesitated. “I hope we can stay friends.”

  CHAPTER 27

  After Todd left, Dervla prowled the house unable to settle. Sometimes she could be dense when it came to deciphering men’s motives. Was he in a roundabout way asking her out? Or was there something he wasn’t telling her?

  It was getting dark. She forced down a blueberry yoghurt from the refrigerator, eating for eating’s sake, then went to check her email. A handful of condolences from clients and other acquaintances. The usual newsletters. Not much else.

  She pulled up the earlier email from John Bailey, opened the first photo and studied it again. Nothing. As if she thought her tired eyes would see something she’d missed the first time. What did she hope to achieve by uncovering the identity of her father’s mistress? There was still the question of whether the woman was married. How far would a jealous husband go to protect what was his?

  With a sigh, she closed the image and sat back. Linking her hands behind her head, she pushed her elbows back and squeezed her shoulder blades together, feeling the stretch in her tight shoulder muscles. A wave of tiredness overwhelmed her. The last few days had finally caught up with her. She struggled to her feet, barely making it to her bedroom before crashing fully clothed on top of the bed.

  The next thing she knew the alarm clock was going off. She threw out a hand, flailing for the snooze button. It took a couple of seconds to register that the ringing had already stopped. Not the clock then. Her eyes still closed, she launched herself off the bed and groped her way to the door.

  Rubbing her eyes, she opened the door to Emmet. He looked worse than she felt, his cheeks sunken, his eyes red-rimmed. “So the long lost brother returns,” she grumbled. “What time is it?”

  “Morning.” His stale beer breath hit her in the face.

  She blinked. “God, I don’t need to ask what you’ve been doing.”

  Frowning, he looked down at his feet. “Walking?”

  “Drinking.” She opened the door wide and waved him in. “Haven’t you been home?”

  He muttered something unintelligible and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

  “I’ll take that as a no, then,” she said. “Your mobile’s on the coffee table.”

  Emmet stopped in his tracks. “What?”

  “Sophie found it on the floor in her car. She gave you a lift?”

  His expression relaxed. “Oh yeah.”

  “Why were you walking down the road in the middle of the day in the first place? You haven’t lost your license, have you?”

  “Coffee first, eh?”

  “That bad?”

  He gave a manic laugh. “Now, why would you think that?” His voice rose in pitch. “Life’s bloody fantastic. Couldn’t be better.”

  “Okay, stupid question, but that doesn’t—” She bit her tongue. “Coffee first.”

  While she preheated the espresso machine and popped a couple of slices of bread in the toaster, Emmet checked his phone. “There’s a call here from Gabe. What did he want?”

  Dervla took a deep breath and turned around. “To let you know about the funeral arrangements.” Emmet remained stony-faced as she relayed the information Gabe had given her.

  Breakfast ready, they drank coffee and picked at toast in silence, the mood even too somber for small talk.

  She pushed aside her plate. “So what’s with the walking?”

  “I sold my car.”

  “Why?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly flush at the moment.”

  “But I offered to help you out. It’s going to make it harder to get to job interviews and the like,” she said, sounding more like his mother than his sister.

  He lowered his gaze. “Yeah, well…”

  “Yeah well, what?”

  “I have to learn to stand on my own two feet. Apparently.”

  “Who said that? Gabe?”

  Emmet repositioned his knife. The dregs in his coffee cup drew his attention next.

  She frowned. “Dad? You must know he would’ve given you money if he had it to give.”

  “If you say so. We’ll never know now.”

  “Why don’t you have a shower while I do this?” She started clearing the table.

  On his feet in a flash, his expression said, ‘Anything to escape the cross-examination.’

  After Dervla dumped the dishes in the sink, she found her handbag and dug out the Nokia to check for messages. Except overnight, the mystery mobile’s battery had gone flat. Amongst her collection of old cables in her office, she managed to find a power cable that fitted and plugged the phone in to recharge.

  Thirty seconds later, it let out a beep, her surprised yelp no less shrill.

  One message received.

  She pressed Show.

  “How do I know you have

  what you say you have?”

  Dervla hesitated, then replied with:

  “Red shoulder-length

  hair. Small mole over

  one eyebrow.”

  When she heard the bathroom door open, she stashed the phone back in her handbag and went to meet Emmet. “Give me a few minutes to shower, then I’ll run you home.”

  With a thumbs-up, he left her to get ready.

  After dropping Emmet off at home, she decided to swing by Sophie’s place on the off chance she hadn’t left for work yet. Taking the back streets, she avoided the worst of the traffic, making it to Surrey Hills in fifteen minutes.

  At the sight of Martin’s white van parked on the street, she slowed, her heart sinking. He and Sophie had purchased the brick villa a few months after they’d married, but she’d kicked him out not long after. Then taken him back. And then…

  The villa’s front door opened and the unmistakable figure of Sophie’s ex-husband emerged.

  Dervla accelerated and drove past, part of her wishing he’d step out onto the street. How many points for an abusive husband? She hung a left at the next intersection and continued around the block.

  By the time she returned, the white van was gone. She pulled into the now vacant parking space. Gathering her handbag and her wits, she took a deep breath and opened the car door. Please God, let her be all right.

  As Dervla passed the front windows, she saw movement inside and relaxed a little.

  Sophie met her at the door, not a hair out of place, no fresh bruising visible. “This is a surprise. You’re lucky you caught me. Come in.”

  Dervla wiped her feet on the doormat and followed Sophie through to the white-walled living room. A hint of lemongrass and something sweet scented the air.

  “Are you okay, hon?” Sophie bundled a stack of documents together and stretc
hed a rubber band around them. “Has something else happened?”

  “Was that Martin I saw leaving?”

  “What?” Sophie frowned, then let out a huff. “It’s nothing. Just the usual. Except now he’s saying if we can’t make a go of it, he wants his share of the house.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Yes and no. With the way interest rates are, I can’t afford to buy him out. It would mean selling up.” Sophie zipped up her laptop bag.

  “You wouldn’t…” Dervla swallowed her words. “It’s just a house.”

  “Give me some credit,” Sophie said, answering the unvoiced question. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure something out. Do you have time for a coffee?”

  “Don’t you have to get to work?”

  “What do you think I have an answering service for?” Sophie patted Dervla’s back and headed toward the all stainless steel kitchen, her heels beating a staccato across the polished floorboards.

  Dervla crossed to the breakfast bar and pulled out a stool. “The funeral’s this Saturday.”

  Sophie turned. “Oh, hon, I’m so sorry.”

  “No, it’s good. At least I get to say goodbye. Closure.” Dervla swallowed. “It’s much better than not knowing what happened to him.”

  A beep sounded from the depths of her handbag. She fished out her mobile phone. Not hers. Next she checked the Nokia.

  One message received.

  “What do you want?”

  Dervla replied with: “Just to talk. Please.”

  “New phone?” Sophie asked, setting one of the two mugs of coffee in front of Dervla.

  “It’s not actually mine. It’s one Dad had.”

  Sophie frowned. “So who are you texting?”

  “His lover.” Dervla waited for Sophie to stop choking on her coffee. “You don’t think it’s a good idea?”

  “What lover? Who is she?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. You don’t happen to know of any redheads that Dad might’ve fancied, do you?”

  Sophie gave her a blank stare.

  “I’m sure I told you about the photos.”

  “What photos? What are you talking about?”

  After Dervla filled her in about John Bailey’s visit, Sophie said, “So where does the phone come into it?”

  “I think Dad used it to call the woman in the photos.”

  Sophie stirred another teaspoon of sugar into her coffee. “How come you have it? I mean, I would’ve thought it’s something the police would be interested in.”

  “I’m sure they would be. But since I found it after they’d already searched Dad’s office, I think I’m entitled to hang on to it for a short while, don’t you?”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “Under the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet.”

  “Strange place to keep a phone.”

  “Not if you don’t want anyone else to know about it,” Dervla said.

  “Hence why you think it has something to do with an affair?”

  “That and the only number – no name – that appears in the call register has texted me twice now.”

  “You or your father?”

  “Me. I identified myself as Warren’s daughter.”

  Sophie gave a slow nod. “So what does this woman have to say for herself?”

  “Nothing yet. I still have to convince her to talk to me.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  Dervla glanced at the silent Nokia and sipped her coffee.

  “What time’s the funeral on Saturday?” Sophie asked.

  “Ten o’clock. I’d like it if you could come.”

  “No question, hon. I’ll be there.”

  For a long moment, neither spoke.

  “What’s happening with your love life?” Sophie asked.

  “What love life?”

  “Well, has Harry…” Sophie’s finger spun circles in the air “…what’s-his-face sent you any more flowers?”

  “Not more. The ones I thought were from him were actually from Todd.”

  “Todd the cop?” A grin spread across Sophie’s face. “It’s either a feast or a famine with you.”

  “You can’t read anything into it.” Dervla gulped her cooling coffee. “People send flowers when someone dies. It’s customary in case you’ve forgotten.” She climbed off the barstool. “You have to get to work. Time I was going.”

  Chuckling, Sophie stacked the two coffee mugs in the dishwasher. “Anyone ever told you how transparent you are?”

  Dervla suppressed a smile. “Okay, perhaps I should cross subterfuge off my CV, but when there’s something to tell, you’ll be the first one to know.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Coffee and warm yeast scented the air. Dervla gazed out the café window, the clatter of crockery and pans coming from the kitchen behind her somehow comforting. Two women, their gym shoes at odds with their tailored skirts, marched up the footpath. Off to work. Exactly where she should be. However, the last thing she felt like doing was sitting alone at home, trying to concentrate on a computer screen.

  A yellow and red ochre poster on the café wall, advertising The Melbourne Didjeridu Festival, caught her eye. Seeing the superimposed black-and-white image of an aboriginal man wearing not much more than body paint and playing his culture’s traditional wind instrument, made her think of “men’s business.” Legend had it that any female touching the didgeridoo faced infertility.

  She glanced at her mobile. Harry still hadn’t called. When she thought about it, she knew so little about him except that he’d once been married to Lucinda, Dervla’s stepmother. Despite that and the short time she’d known him, not returning phone calls didn’t seem in his nature. Even if it were only to say goodbye.

  Before she could change her mind, she dug Harry’s business card out of her wallet and dialed his work number.

  “Stedman Distribution, good morning,” announced a cheery female voice.

  “Harry Kilbourne, please.” Dervla held her breath.

  “I’m sorry Mr Kilbourne is currently on leave. Perhaps someone else could help you.”

  “No, I need to speak to Mr Kilbourne. Do you know when he’ll be back in the office?”

  “Not at this stage. He’s attending an interstate funeral. If you care to leave a message, I’ll make sure he gets it.”

  “No, that’s fine. I’ll email him instead.” Dervla hung up.

  At least she knew Harry hadn’t returned to Brisbane, or if he had, he hadn’t informed his employer. She drummed her fingers against the table edge.

  She opened a browser window on her phone. How many H Kilbournes could there be in Queensland? According to the White Pages, none. He either didn’t have a landline, the number was registered in someone else’s name, or he had a silent number.

  Blocking her caller ID, she tried calling Harry’s mobile again. If he were avoiding her, he wouldn’t know it was her phoning and perhaps answer. And if not, he needn’t know how many attempts she’d made to contact him. She didn’t want him thinking she was desperate or crazy. Or both.

  She tossed her phone in her bag and scraped back her chair, leaving the espresso she’d ordered untouched. Her earlier coffee with Sophie sat heavy in her stomach. A waitress clearing the neighboring table stopped to let Dervla past.

  Outside, the day was heating up, the sky a cloudless blue. Cyclists weaved through the stalled traffic, squeezing through gaps that even a caver would think twice about.

  Stepping out of the thoroughfare, she took a moment to gather her thoughts. In the park opposite, she spotted a gaunt, shaven-headed man and did a double take. A thin dark-haired woman joined him. What were the chances?

  The traffic lights changed to green. Dervla darted across the street, dodging cars and bikes. A horn sounded and she lost sight of the couple. She slowed, looking up and down the street. Emaciated as they both were, they couldn’t have just disappeared.

  She ran into the park, scanning the paved and
grassed areas for any sign of the pair. A white-haired woman walking her terrier shied out of her way. Dervla uttered an apology and kept going. Cutting through the trees, she emerged from the shade of a Moreton Bay Fig tree onto a wide path. Up ahead, the shaven-headed man and his companion loitered near one of the garden beds.

  “Alana!” Dervla waved.

  Her half-sister turned but made no move to close the gap. “What now?” she growled, when Dervla reached her.

  Dervla caught her breath, nodding an acknowledgement at Alana’s boyfriend. If anything, Toxic was thinner than the last time she’d seen him. Two deep scratches down the side of his face looked as angry as he did.

  She reached a hand out toward Alana and hesitated. “It’s about our father.”

  Alana drew back, her dark eyes flashing. “I don’t have a father, remember? You can have the murdering fucker.”

  Toxic wrapped a tattooed arm around his girlfriend’s bony shoulders. “Leave off.”

  “Dad’s dead.” It wasn’t quite how she’d planned to break the news.

  Alana stared at her.

  “Why should we care?” Toxic tightened his hold. “He never did.”

  Tears welled in Alana’s eyes. She lowered her gaze.

  Dervla hung back, her half-sister’s fragility like an invisible armor.

  Silence stretched. A jogger skirted around them.

  “I know this is probably not a good time, but we should talk.”

  “Nothing to say,” Toxic said.

  “Maybe, but the police have a few questions they want answered.”

  Alana sniffed and lifted her face. “Police?”

  “Dad didn’t kill himself,” Dervla said, her voice as soft as she could make it. “He was murdered. It’s been all over the news.”

  “Why do the police want to talk to us?” Alana’s voice sharpened. “We ain’t done nothing.”

  Dervla’s bag beeped. She ignored it. Whoever it was could wait. “No one’s saying you have. The police are talking to everyone connected with Dad or Lucinda. Everyone.”

  “So? What’s that got to do with me?”

  “You’re Warren’s daughter.”

  “Not according to him.”

  “If it helps, we can do a DNA test.”