Love, Honour & O'Brien

by Jennifer Rowe

  Holly felt sick. It seemed worse, so much worse, for Andrew to have stolen Una Maggott’s rings than to have taken the teaspoons. It was so cruel. Such a personal betrayal.

  Andrew McNish took all the money I had in the world, and more or less abandoned me at the altar, she reminded herself. You can’t get much more personal than that! But it wasn’t the same. She wasn’t a sick old woman, like Una Mag-gott. Andrew would have known she’d be okay in the end.

  And suddenly she knew she would be okay. However black things seemed now, in the end she’d put her life back together again. She had youth and energy on her side, plus keyboard skills, common sense, a good head for figures, and a reference from Gorgon Office Supplies. She also had a loving family back in Perth, who would send her the fare home in an instant if she could swallow her pride for long enough to call them reverse charges. Una Maggott, confused, betrayed and helpless, despite all her money, was a very different matter.

  Cold anger swept through her, clearing her head. ‘Does Una know—about the rings?’ she asked.

  Eric nodded sombrely. ‘I told her, when I noticed they were gone. That was on Thursday—yesterday—in the afternoon. It shook her, I could see that, but she tried to cover it up. She said not to tell anyone. She said she must have just put the rings somewhere else and forgotten where. But she wouldn’t have moved them. And no one else could have nicked them. McNish and I were the only ones who ever went into that room. The others won’t go past the door. They’re all too scared of Cleo.’

  Holly noted that it hadn’t occurred to Eric that he could be suspected of taking the rings himself. This was a point in his favour, she decided.

  The hearse turned a corner, and the Mealey Marshes war memorial loomed ahead.

  ‘I said I’d keep my trap shut about those rings, and I’ve done it, up till now,’ Eric said in a low voice, as they cruised past the war memorial and purred on down Stillwaters Road, which was now as silent as the grave. ‘If Dulcie or Stiff Cliff find out they’re gone there’ll be hell to pay.’

  ‘So why are you telling me?’ Holly asked bluntly.

  ‘The thing is,’ Eric said, ‘the more Miz M carries on with this murder business, the crazier she looks. Next you know, Dulcie and Cliff will finally convince the doc to have her carted off to some home for old loonies. That’s what they want.’

  He slapped the wheel in frustration. ‘The poor old tart’s losing it, sure, but why should she end up in a home? Ol’ Maggott never did, and he was a lot madder than she is. I can look after her. Sheena’s going, and Lily—not that Lily’s ever been much help—but we can hire someone else.’

  The hearse did a smooth U-turn and came to a halt in front of the daisy-infested passage that was 16A. The bookshop next door had given up for the day. The butcher’s shop was in the process of closing. The parsley-decked trays of cutlets, sausages and rump steak had been removed from the window, and plastic ferns had been tastefully arranged in their place.

  The bald butcher was standing outside, smoking, in exactly the same position as before. It was as if he hadn’t moved since Holly saw him last. He regarded the hearse with interest.

  Eric turned to face Holly and, in a supreme gesture of sincerity, whipped off his sunglasses. His eyes were brown, soulful and slightly watery.

  ‘I don’t know why you people are after McNish, and I don’t want to know,’ he said, his lips barely moving. ‘It’s something heavy, I can see that. Way out of my league. But you’re professionals, and you’ve got the manpower. So I’m giving you the tip. There can’t be many fences who’d handle those rings. They’re too unusual, and they must be worth a fortune. If you can trace them, they might lead you to McNish. You can do what you like with him. All I want is proof that he was alive when you found him.’

  Holly didn’t know what to say. She found it endearing that Eric, who had obviously been around, and whose father had a friend in the cement business, could be at the same time so naïve as to be impressed by her work suit and an office above a clairvoyant’s premises in Mealey Marshes. She felt strangely unwilling to shatter his illusions. It was balm to her bruised self-esteem to be regarded as a tough professional by someone, even Eric. On the other hand, she knew she was no more capable of tracing Una Maggott’s rings than O’Brien’s parrot was.

  And on the third hand, the last few minutes had made her realise that in fact she no longer had any interest in finding Andrew McNish. All she wanted now was to put the whole sordid business behind her and get on with her life— such as it was.

  ‘I’m not sure—’ she began carefully, and broke off as Eric’s face froze and he raised his hand warningly. He was looking past her, through the passenger window. She looked around.

  The butcher had prised himself from the wall and was approaching the hearse.

  ‘Think about it,’ muttered Eric, putting his sunglasses on again. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  He leaned over Holly and clicked the passenger door open. As she wrestled with her seatbelt, which had caught in the strap of her handbag, the butcher dropped his cigarette butt, ground it out with his heel and pulled the door wide.

  ‘G’day, mate,’ he said to Eric, far too heartily. ‘Impressive vehicle you’ve got there. Runs sweet, eh? Must eat up the gas, but.’

  Eric nodded broodingly.

  His masculine social duties having been discharged, the butcher addressed himself to Holly. ‘Glad I caught up with you,’ he said. ‘Old Mossie upstairs, Enid Moss, was in the shop earlier to get her cat’s rabbit, and she gave me the drum that you’ve moved in upstairs where the bloke topped himself, and you’re a private dick! Dickess, I suppose I should say.’ He guffawed.

  Inwardly cursing Mrs Moss, Holly simpered, mumbled and tore at the seatbelt. Eric sat like a statue, back in idling mode.

  ‘You could have knocked me over with a feather,’ said the butcher, who didn’t look as if a charging bull would do more than rock him back on his heels. ‘What a bit of luck! Thing is, there’s a bloke at the club—nicest bloke you’d ever meet, heart of gold. He’s having a bit of trouble with his old lady, but he’s not too flush with the readies. Thought you might help him out—mates’ rates.’

  Freeing herself at last, Holly slithered untidily from the hearse. The butcher caught her as she stumbled and hauled her out of the gutter, slamming the door behind her.

  ‘She’s right, mate,’ he called to Eric, slapping the roof of the hearse familiarly. Without a flicker of acknowledgement, Eric pulled away from the kerb.

  ‘Funny sort of cove,’ the butcher commented, as the hearse purred up the hill. ‘Anyhow, about this mate of mine—’

  ‘Actually, I’m—I’m just up here temporarily,’ babbled Holly. ‘On a job, you know? I’ll be going in a day or two.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said the butcher, showing no sign of disappointment. ‘Well, I’d better get back and do me bit before Harry comes after me with a cleaver. Hoo roo.’

  With a cheery wave he waddled back to the shop, dead-heating at the door with a tiny, frantic old woman carrying a string bag.

  ‘Just made it, Mrs Halliday,’ Holly heard him say, as he pulled the door open and waved the little woman through. ‘Sleep in, did ya? Hungover again? You want to watch it. Harry nearly sold your kidneys twice this arvo. I had to fight him for them, in the finish.’

  Giggling and twittering, the tiny woman preceded him into the shop.

  Holly found herself smiling as she walked into the maw of 16A. She had almost reached Abigail’s rainbow door when it opened and a large young woman came out. The woman had dull skin and short, lifeless dark hair. Her most outstanding features were her eyebrows, which joined over the bridge of her nose to form a single, thick black bar, giving her heavy face a pugnacious, lowering expression. She had a small brown bottle in her hand.

  ‘Now, don’t forget, Dimity,’ Abigail’s voice cooed from inside the room. ‘The burnt offering tonight, under the full moon, and ten drops of the potion in a glass of warm water e
very morning.’

  The young woman nodded, turned to go and saw Holly. She jumped, hid the bottle behind her back and flushed scarlet. Abigail popped out of the door to see what was wrong.

  ‘Oh, never mind about Holly!’ she trilled, sizing up the situation instantly. ‘My colleague, you know? She’s been out . . . on a house call. Holly, this is Dimity, a new client!’ She made anguished faces at Holly behind the blushing woman’s back and mouthed incomprehensibly.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Holly heard herself saying.

  The young woman mumbled a greeting. The painful blush began to subside.

  ‘Give me a ring in a week to tell me how you’re going, won’t you?’ Abigail said brightly.

  Dimity mumbled again, flashed an astonishingly sweet smile that transformed her whole face, and hurried past Holly to the street.

  12

  ‘Thank you for that,’ whispered Abigail, drawing Holly into the warm, patchouli-scented little room beyond the rainbow door. ‘They don’t mind Enid Moss, but they get so embarrassed if it’s someone their own age.’

  ‘What did she come to see you for?’ Holly snapped. The room was claustrophobic. Backing onto the bookshop as it did, it had no windows, and it was very dimly lit. Candles flickered here and there, and crystals gleamed on low shelves crammed with books. In the centre was a small table draped in black velvet, with two chairs facing one another across its midnight surface.

  All the trappings, Holly thought, remembering Lily, the soft-footed, hairdressing witch. She felt very sorry for Dimity, and disgusted with Abigail for preying on her, feeding her a lot of hocus-pocus.

  ‘Oh, she wanted a love potion,’ sighed Abigail. ‘The poor girl’s lonely. Extremely romantic, but terribly shy. The grandmother who brought her up is very old-fashioned.’ ‘So you sold her a love potion, did you?’ Holly asked coldly. ‘Oh, no,’ said Abigail, staring at her. ‘There’s no such thing, sadly. Most of those old recipes were actually aphrodisiacs, and an aphrodisiac is the last thing Dimity needs. No, I made her up a mixture of St John’s Wort, to cheer her up, plus some vitamin B for energy and some cleansing herbs for her skin. That should help. It will give her confidence, which is half the battle, really, isn’t it?’

  Holly readjusted, then flew back into the attack. ‘What about the burnt offering under the moon?’

  ‘Oh, that should help, too,’ said Abigail serenely. ‘Dimity was very keen on the idea of burnt offerings making wishes come true. She’d read about it somewhere. Well, I told her it never hurt to try, but the offering should be something personal. Fingernail clippings, for example. Or hair. So we decided that she’d sacrifice fifty of her eyebrow hairs. I told her to take them from the middle.’

  As Holly gaped at her, she winked. ‘A bit of hocus-pocus makes the medicine go down,’ she said. ‘Listen, now you’re here, why don’t you stay? We could have a drink before dinner. I’ve put the casserole on to heat. All I have to do is make the salad.’

  ‘That would be . . . nice,’ said Holly faintly. ‘But I’ll just have water, thanks.’ The thought of food made her weak at the knees. The thought of alcohol made her head swim.

  Abigail regarded her thoughtfully. ‘In fact, would you mind if we ate a bit early?’ she asked. ‘As soon as the casserole’s hot enough? I’m starving.’

  Holly shook her head, speechless.

  ‘Wonderful!’ said Abigail. ‘And while we’re waiting, why don’t I read the cards for you, Holly? It seems to me you’ve got a few things on your mind.’

  ‘Oh, it’s okay,’ Holly mumbled. ‘Really, I don’t want . . . I don’t need . . .’ But she didn’t resist as Abigail led her to the velvet-draped table. Her sudden anger on Dimity’s behalf, and the realisation that the anger had been unjustified, seemed to have drained the last drop of adrenalin from her reserves, leaving her feeling listless, and strangely uncaring about what happened to her next. Why not? she found herself thinking, as she sank into the chair Abigail pulled out for her. Let her do her thing if she wants to. At least there’ll be food at the end of it.

  She watched blearily as Abigail went to a shelf littered with crystals, stood perfectly still with her back turned for a moment, then picked something up and returned to the table.

  She was holding a small bundle wrapped in black silk. She put the bundle onto the table and unwrapped it. A pack of cards was revealed. The cards were black with a central gold design, larger than normal playing cards, and a bit furry around the edges.

  Abigail folded the silk square carefully and put it to one side. Then she presented the pack to Holly.

  ‘You shuffle,’ she said. ‘And I’d like you to focus on the key question you want answered, if you can.’

  Holly wasn’t good at shuffling cards. She’d never picked up the knack, though her mother, her grandmother and most of her aunts played solo and could shuffle like card sharps. She did her awkward best with Abigail Honour’s outsize deck, catching glimpses of the pictures on the cards as she manipulated them. From those images, Abigail Honour would presumably tell her future. Or, perhaps, answer the question she was supposed to be thinking about.

  She certainly had questions. The main one was: ‘How am I going to get out of this mess?’ Others were, in order of importance: ‘How am I going to get some money?’ ‘Where is Andrew?’ and ‘What is Una Maggott going to think when I don’t turn up in the morning?’

  She put down the cards, feeling they’d been shuffled enough. Badly, but enough.

  ‘Now cut them, with your left hand,’ Abigail instructed. Holly did as she was told, wondering vaguely if it mattered that she was left-handed to start with.

  ‘Fine,’ said Abigail, drawing the pack towards her across the black velvet, and pushing the cards’ flabby edges meticulously into line. ‘Now, let’s see . . .’

  And, drawing cards from the top of the deck, laying them down one by one, she began to talk. She didn’t set out the cards in a pattern, as Holly had expected from various magazine articles she’d read. She merely put them down in front of her in groups of three, as if she were playing some sort of patience.

  Holly tried to focus on the cards herself. The images were upside-down for her. She couldn’t make much sense of them. Colours and shapes blurred in the candlelight. She glimpsed a ruined building, what looked like a game wheel, lots of swords, some golden goblets, a dark figure with a scythe over its shoulder . . . that one didn’t augur well.

  ‘Your life changed, quite dramatically, not long ago,’ Abigail said slowly. ‘You’ve lost your feeling of security. Death’s involved, but it isn’t the main issue for you at the moment.’ She looked up. ‘You’ve broken up with someone recently.’

  Holly nodded, unnerved.

  ‘It’s good you got rid of him,’ said Abigail, wrinkling her nose. ‘He was unreliable—attractive and charming, probably, but not worth having. A Gemini, I think. A great one for the grand gesture, but no good on the long haul.’

  Quite, Holly thought, and inconsequentially remembered asking Andrew to sponsor one of her little Perth cousins whose primary school was doing a charity walk. Andrew had insisted on pledging five dollars per kilometre. Holly had been overwhelmed, almost embarrassed. It was five times what anyone else had promised. And of course, that had been the point. She doubted he’d ever actually paid up.

  Abigail turned over more cards. ‘I can see secrets and lies around you. Shadows. And a snake.’

  ‘That was a real snake,’ Holly blurted out, startled into speech. ‘A python. I saw it this afternoon.’

  Abigail’s expression didn’t change. She went back to the cards, staring at them intently. ‘There’s an issue about money. Money lost or stolen. Was it yours?’

  ‘Yes.’ Holly felt her face grow hot.

  ‘You should forget about getting it back,’ Abigail said, frowning slightly. ‘I can see searching, but the searching won’t benefit you. A strong-minded older woman—damaged in some way—is going to come into your life. Or perhaps she has a
lready?’ Again she glanced up, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Yes,’ Holly squeaked. She cleared her throat. ‘I met her this afternoon. The snake lives in her house.’

  Abigail looked unsurprised. ‘This woman will exert a powerful influence over you, if you let her,’ she said. ‘She wants something from you—it’s very important to her. She’s very determined. You’ll have to decide what to do about that.’

  ‘She wants me to help her with something,’ Holly said. ‘But—but I can’t. So I’m not going back.’

  Abigail made no comment, but turned over three more cards. One of them, Holly noted queasily, showed a man hanging upside-down.

  ‘You should trust your instincts,’ Abigail said. ‘Your instincts are good. The path ahead of you is difficult—even dangerous—but your instincts will guide you safely, if you listen to them. You’ll be receiving some small sums of money from unexpected sources very soon. And . . . there’s a handsome stranger waiting in the wings. You might have met him already. An attractive, fair-headed man with a practical streak.’

  She glanced up at Holly again. Holly shook her head. The only men she’d met lately were Eric and the butcher, and neither of them was fair-haired—or remotely attractive.

  ‘Then you’ll meet him soon,’ said Abigail, unperturbed. ‘And he’s not the only man interested in you. There seem to be several of them circling around, waiting for you to notice them. It looks to me as if you’re not going to be alone for long.’

  She gathered up the cards, returned them to the pack and folded her hands. The consultation, it seemed, was over.

  Holly had been far more impressed than she’d expected. The bits about Una Maggott and the snake had been extraordinary. So had the stuff about stolen money. But she had found the summing up disappointing.Trust yourself? Money coming? A handsome stranger? Apparently the union of tarot-card readers adhered to the old Hollywood ‘Send them home happy’ rule.

  ‘Thank you, Abigail,’ she murmured, hoping this was the appropriate response. ‘That was really—interesting.’