Sex on Tuesdays

by June Whyte

  And then it hit me.

  There’d been no time to read the labels on Jack’s many medications this morning. What if the incriminating Cantharidin was in his medicine cabinet?

  If so, we had him.

  The fingerprint on the photo might be thrown out of court because it was gained illegally, but if I could find Cantharidin in Jack’s bathroom, with Jack’s fingerprints on the container and the prints match the print on the cardboard box containing the bread, he was a cooked goose.

  Especially if Simon talked the police into obtaining a search warrant so they could enter legally and confiscate the evidence.

  And there was an unlocked window in Jack’s house—just waiting for me to open it.

  Only one thing stood in my way. Simon. He’d warned me to stay inside the house behind locked doors. Like an exotic bird in a cage. I sighed, finished eating my healthy fruit and poured a mug of strong coffee with three sugars.

  How could I not go ahead with my plan? After all, it was a chance to skewer Jack Rivers once and for all. And since when did Simon have the right to order me around?

  I stood up and barged into my bedroom. Rammed open the wardrobe and chose suitable break-and-enter clothes from my meager selection.

  That was the trouble with men.

  They always wanted to be on top.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, I handed Mary’s photo to a gruff, taciturn, young officer who I’d pick for a thug if he hadn’t been in uniform. Then, the moment his car disappeared around the corner, I grabbed a dog lead from a hook behind the back door.

  Horace must have heard the jangle of the disc on the collar. He woke up, and tail wagging, leapt off the sofa and bounded across the floor. Then, like a homing pigeon, he extended his neck, waiting for me to attach the collar and lead.

  I figured no one would look twice at a middle-aged woman walking her dog on a crisp winter afternoon.

  After parking my car in a quiet cul-de-sac a kilometer from Jack’s house, I stepped out onto the footpath. Dressed in a navy tracksuit, a pair of well-used running shoes and a dark woolen beanie that covered my ears, I thought I blended into the scenery pretty well.

  “Okay, boy! Let’s go!” I told my bright-eyed, smiling greyhound and opened the rear door of my car, stepping aside as he hurled his thirty-five kilos of muscle in my general direction.

  I had two plans worked out. Both necessitated me walking the kilometer to Jack’s street from where I parked my car and then strolling past his house. If Jack was home, I’d execute Plan A. Horace and I would keep on walking, return to my car and I’d drive home and lock my front door behind me.

  Simple.

  However, if there was no car in sight, I’d put Plan B into action. Toss a ball into Jack’s yard, encourage my dog to chase it and follow him through the gate. Horace could run around the yard with the ball while I climbed through the window.

  Not quite so simple.

  Taking deep regular breaths to keep focused and prevent pants-wetting fear from engulfing me, I marched toward Jack’s street. My plans were in place. I could do this. Then, just before rounding the corner, I forced myself to slow to an I’ve-got-all-day, meandering stroll. After all, I had an image to maintain—middle-aged, creaky knees—taking the dog for a walk on a crisp winter’s afternoon.

  Image firmly in place, I turned the corner and stopped like I’d run into an invisible force field.

  What was going on halfway down the street? My heart did a nose dive toward my cheap running shoes. Six police cars were drawn up at the curb. An ambulance screamed around the corner, sirens clanging. And a crowd of people had gathered to watch the entertainment.

  And all this in front of Jack’s house.

  Holy crap! Perhaps I’d need a Plan C. I quickly tucked my chin into my chest, pulled my beanie further down over my face, and dragging Horace behind me, hurried to find out the cause of the fuss.

  As the ambulance screeched to a halt outside the house, I peered around the bulk of a large policeman who was guarding the driveway. Two medics leaped out of the ambulance, raced around to the back doors, grabbed a stretcher and equipment and scuttled inside the house. Had Jack’s ceiling mirror fallen on top of him? Had he mixed up his pills and had a bad reaction? Had he fought with someone whose name and past indiscretions was tucked away in his filing cabinet?

  “What’s going on?” I asked a straggle-haired woman still in her food-stained dressing-gown and slippers. She was smoking a cigarette and had propped herself against Jack’s front fence as though she couldn’t be bothered using her legs to hold herself upright.

  “Jack Rivers lives in there,” she told me between puffs. “Do you know him?”

  “Never heard of him,” I lied and moved closer to hear more.

  “Writes for some tacky newspaper. Forget what it’s called. Young guy, but up himself, if you ask me. Never stops to speak to the riffraff.” She dropped her cigarette in the dirt and ground it out with the toe of one slipper.

  “Live in this street, do you?”

  “Nah. I’m staying with my sister and her boyfriend for a few weeks. Just until they put my rat-faced hubby behind bars. Bastard. When I heard the cop cars with their sirens screaming I thought I’d come and have a sticky beak.”

  “Know what happened?”

  She shrugged one bony shoulder. “Someone said the guy’s been bashed up. Someone else said he’s been shot. Dunno. But the way the cops have been running around like blue-assed flies, I reckon it must be bad.”

  “Poor bloke,” I said, and pulled Horace away from the fence post. I didn’t want him contaminating a crime scene by lifting his leg.

  After watching the activity for another five minutes, I moved away from the crowd and tapped in Simon’s number on my mobile.

  “Simon,” I whispered when he answered. “I’m at Jack’s place.”

  “What the hell are you doing there?” he yelled. “Didn’t I tell you to stay home?”

  “The police are here,” I said, ignoring Simon’s rant. “And an ambulance. In fact, Jack’s being carried out of the house on a stretcher right now.”

  I pushed through the crowd to catch a sight of Jack before they lifted him into the back of the ambulance and drove away. He looked so young lying on the stretcher. But as I drew closer, I could see blood soaking his carefully arranged hairstyle and that his Greek god nose was smashed beyond repair. And then I gagged—covered my mouth with one hand as I swallowed the sickly bile that rushed into my mouth. One side of Jack’s head had been blown away. One side of his head just wasn’t there anymore.

  As they passed by, I watched one of the paramedics lean over, place a finger to Jack’s neck and then lift the sheet up over his poor wrecked face. Jack wasn’t going anywhere. This was a crime scene.

  Hand shaking, I lifted the phone to my ear. “Simon, we’re running out of suspects,” I told him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jack isn’t the murderer.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that. Jack Rivers is—”

  “Dead. Someone beat the crap out of him and then decided to blow the side of his head away.”

  “Get out of there, Dani!” Simon barked and I had to hold the phone away from my ear to stop from being deafened.

  “But—”

  “Go home. Lock the doors and don’t answer to anyone but me. Understand?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Go home! Now!”

  21

  Friday, 3:30 p.m.

  I snapped my phone shut, hooked it onto the waistband of my trackpants and studied the bystanders gathered in front of the crime-scene tape. In television crime shows you usually spot the murderer hanging around afterwards, getting a buzz from knowing he was responsible for the thrill caused by violent death.

  There was no familiar face in this crowd. If Jack’s murderer was busy getting his rocks off here, he was a total stranger to me.

  Sighing, I reached down and gently stroked my d
og’s head. More to feel the warmth and comfort of his presence than for any other reason. It didn’t work. There was a deep-down coldness inside me that refused to be warmed, refused to be comforted.

  If Jack wasn’t our killer. who had mixed the ingredients to make a loaf of bread for me and then sniggered while adding a liberal dose of aphrodisiac to the recipe?

  I noticed two uniforms muscle their way into the crowd, asking questions. I had no answers—well, none that didn’t involve me—so I tacked on the end of a family of Mum, Dad, Grandma and 2.5 kids and followed them along the street, away from the remains of the once drop-dead gorgeous Gape journalist who’d so recently flirted with me at Erica’s. That lush mouth, so yummy, so full, so mesmerizing—the mouth that had kissed me—was lush no more. The hand that had played tiptoe chasey across the soft skin on my inner thigh was forever still.

  At the corner, I veered off and hurried back to my parked car, all thoughts of searching Jack’s bathroom for evidence now completely irrelevant.

  While driving home, I kept seeing Jack’s ruined face. Hearing Simon’s frantic, “Get out of there, Dani,” tasting sour bile each time it rose in my throat.

  Who had killed Jack?

  Could it have been the mystery person Jack was yelling at as Simon and I climbed out of his window that morning? Okay, after our near-miss in Jack’s study we’d hit the ground running and didn’t hang around, but I could have sworn there was only one car in the driveway. And that was Jack’s. So, whoever it was with Jack this morning, could have driven to the house with him, beat him up, shot half his face away and then left on foot.

  I gripped the steering wheel harder. Bit into my bottom lip. How could I dodge a killer if I didn’t know who the heck was doing the killing?

  When I pulled up at a red light on the corner of Main North Road and Midway Road, a down-and-out guy in a stained, ankle-length overcoat started to cross the road. Halfway over, he stopped, dug into an inside pocket and took out what looked like a gun. My brain, mushier than oatmeal, switched off. And then the man placed one end of the gun in his mouth, touched the other end with a lit match and continued walking. With a sick feeling of relief, I realized he’d merely lit his pipe.

  Further along Main North Road, a black Subaru 4WD came cruising up alongside me. Oh, my God. It was Him. The killer was going to run me off the road and splatter me against a tree—this time making certain the paramedics scraped what was left of me off the windscreen with a spatula.

  Bug-eyed, I planted my foot on the accelerator, rocketed forward into the next lane, and cut the Subaru off.

  He’d have to catch me first.

  Still shaking, I glanced in my rearview mirror. A grey-haired grandmother, gold earrings hanging from both ears, poked her newly permed head through the window of the Subaru and was shaking her fist at me.

  I yelled “Sorry” and let her pass.

  By the time I’d reached the outskirts of Gawler, my nerves were playing pass-the-parcel with a live bomb. I even flinched when turning into Maple, two streets from home, a neighboring kid, astride his red and silver tricycle, pointed a plastic water pistol at my car and yelled, “bang bang you dead!”

  With claws for fingers, I clutched the steering wheel in a death grip. And it wasn’t until I turned into Bower Street that I let out a sigh and relaxed. For there, behind the colorful row of rose bushes bordering my front lawn, stood my house. At that moment it had never looked so beautiful—so safe, so welcoming.

  After parking my car on the opposite side of the road, I unlatched each claw and then undid my seat belt.

  “Well, mate, we made it,” I said to Horace and reached over to open the car door for him.

  Eager to hide inside the house, I slid out onto the footpath, hurried across the road and then followed my dog up the pebbled path leading to my front door.

  Before we’d gone half a dozen steps along the path, I stopped—ears on stalks. Was that someone talking? I put a restraining hand on Horace’s collar and listened harder. Nah, I thought, letting my breath whoosh out in relief. Only a magpie sitting on the fence, warbling. Probably messaging the neighborhood birds—warning them to steer clear of 34 Bower Street, as the treacherous householder was a bird killer.

  Oh boy, did I need a drink. And I wasn’t talking about water. Or coffee. Luckily Simon and I hadn’t emptied the carton of wine while watching cartoons the night before. As soon as I was inside that door, I’d lock it behind me and refuse to come out until the police had done their job.

  And getting drunk while waiting for that to happen was the best idea I’d had all day.

  My mind focused on the wine in the fridge; it wasn’t until I was three meters away that I noticed the front door was open.

  Shit!

  I snatched a quick breath. Almost choking as my spit caught in my throat and my heart thwacked double time against my ribs.

  The killer had beaten me home.

  All thought, other than staying alive, drained immediately from my brain. I grabbed Horace by the collar and dragged him into the bushes, where we both crashed to the ground.

  “Stay!” I whispered in Horace’s ear and scrambled to sit up, at the same time yanking my phone from my waistband.

  As I dialed Simon’s number, I peered through the leaves and frowned. The killer had turned the television on in my lounge room. Bloody hell! This guy was making himself at home. Watching my television and likely drinking my wine—while waiting to murder me. How rude was that? I hope he hadn’t noticed the choc-chip cheesecake from the Cheesecake Shop when he opened the fridge. Cuz if he ate that—I’d really get mad. It was the last one they had in the shop.

  “Simon,” I whispered into the phone when he answered. “I’m in a spot of trouble here.”

  “Dani?”

  “Yeah. It’s me. Sorry to disturb you at work again, but I think the killer’s inside my house.”

  “Fuck!”

  “My front door’s open and I know I locked it before I left to go to Jack’s.”

  “Holy crap!”

  “Horace and I are hiding in the bushes in my front garden, and if I try to get back to my car, whoever’s inside the house might see us.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Simon, can you please stop with the blasphemy and either come up with a halfway decent suggestion or drive over here and rescue me?”

  “Jesus, Dani. How do you get yourself into these situations?”

  “I don’t!” I said, all wounded and indignant. “Hey, I’m the innocent party here. The victim. The poor sod who’s next on the murderer’s hit list. The situation, as you call it, came to me.”

  “But you were not supposed to leave the house in the first place. Remember?”

  I sniffed. Okay, he had me there.

  “Now listen, Dani.” Simon spoke very slowly and I could hear the hidden fear layered in his voice. “Stay put. Do not move. Especially, do not try to get inside the house. Hear me? I’ll be with you in five minutes.”

  “Try to be quicker than that, Simon.” I sniffed again. “I really need to use the loo.”

  After disconnecting, I chewed one fingernail down to the quick. I hoped Simon had the foresight to bring a weapon with him when he came to rescue me. All I had was a nail file in the pocket of my trackpants. Not much use in distance warfare and I had no intention of getting close and personal with whoever had taken over my house.

  Of course there was always Horace. I studied the dog curled up beside me, half asleep. His first port of call after any form of exercise was usually the sofa, his beanbag, or the middle of my bed. Would he have time to chew on a killer’s leg before dropping off to sleep?

  His muffled snore failed to instill confidence.

  After waiting for five minutes, I decided I couldn’t wait any longer for Simon. All this heart-stopping action was having a detrimental effect on my bladder. Cursing my creaky knees, I crawled out from under the bush and scuttled on all fours over to the front window. Perhaps I could sneak a l
ook in the window? That way, at least I’d know if there was more than one bad guy to steer clear of.

  Damn. Before taking off to Jack’s place, I’d pulled the blinds down. Not deterred, I pushed myself up and crouching over, tiptoed around the side of the house. Maybe the killer had unlocked my back door. If I could get inside, I could scout around and suss out the opposition.

  And use the bathroom.

  The back door opened at my touch, and I sidled inside. Sounded like Mash on the television. At least the killer had a sense of humor—and also an obsession with blood, guts and big guns.

  I was only a few steps away from the bathroom when I heard footsteps approaching.

  “Wh…who’s there?” I squeaked, my breath stuck in my throat. Fair dinkum, if anyone yelled ME and jumped out from behind a door, I’d cash my chips on the spot.

  And then my jaw dropped. I must be hallucinating. My mother was strolling down the passageway toward me, smiling.

  “Oh, hello, Dani. I’m so glad you’re home,” she said leaning in to kiss me on the cheek. “Henry and I have come to spend some quality time with you.”

  “Huh?”

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she went on, evidently not noticing my glazed expression. “I found your spare key under the doormat, although I must say, that’s not really a safe place to hide your front door key, sweetie. What with all the break-ins you hear of today. Anyway, I must admit Henry and I were glad to get inside and have a sit down while we waited for you.”

  “Mum?” I gasped and, feeling a little woozy, put one hand against the wall for support. “What are you doing here? Does anyone at Sunny Days know you’ve gone?”

  “Well,” Mum said, brushing a nonexistent piece of lint from her second-best outfit, a lacy mauve two-piece that went beautifully with the color of her hair. “You know how your sister Penny has been calling me a floozy?”

  I nodded. Seemed a lot easier than speech.