Pieces of a Lie

by Rowena Holloway

  She tossed her hair. ‘Oh sure, blame the mother.’

  ‘Mina, this is not a joke.’

  He launched into a description of what had been done to Jane Carlson’s body. He knew he should shut up, but he couldn’t stop. He kept thinking of Mina in Carlson’s bed. By the time he finished, she’d gone as white as the picket fence behind her, her bag clutched to her stomach like a blood-red shield.

  God, he was a bastard. A few months ago he would have had more control. He wouldn’t have stayed to warn her, he would have put a tail on her and gone to interrogate Gibson about his long-ago affair with Jane Carlson. Before the shooting, he wouldn’t have allowed his passion to rule him. One bullet had changed everything.

  She swallowed. Then her expression hardened. ‘You can’t scare me into leaving this alone.’

  ‘Ask yourself this. If Gibson is so careful of his reputation that he’s kept you away from his best clients for five years, why would he invite an obvious thug like Carlson to his party?’

  ‘First my dad, then me, now Gibson? If you know so much about Carlson, why don’t you just arrest him?’

  ‘A little thing called evidence.’

  ‘Evidence? Seems to me you shoot first and ask questions later.’

  He watched her hurry away, then turned to wait for the waitress to end her shift. It was a long time before he realised his insides hadn’t lurched at Mina’s well-angled parting shot.

  Chapter 32

  DUNNY PACED THE FOOTPATH in front of the police station. This was a dumb idea. Hadn’t he spent enough time in that friggin’ building? All that hanging around, waiting to report in. If he went in there that Stella chick would give him a smile that made him cold and hot at the same time, like she knew what he was thinking when he looked at her.

  Nah, fuck it. He was just being a dickhead. Kegs was all right. He had to be.

  ‘Keep a VB cold for me, kid,’ Kegs had said when he got the summons from Carlson. ‘Something tells me I’m gonna need it.’

  ‘Want me to come with you, Kegs?’

  ‘Best you lay low for a bit.’

  Kegs had winked as he stepped out the door, but the poor sucker had looked like he was going to a funeral.

  ‘What have you done this time, Dunstan?’

  Dunny turned. The only people who called him Dunstan were the cops and his aunt. His aunt hadn’t talked to him in three years. There were two of them, one short and round, the other tall with biceps straining his shirt.

  The fat one chewed his gum and looked at his watch. ‘Bit late for reporting in.’

  ‘I ain’t here to report in. I ain’t done nothing!’

  They laughed. Fatty looked at him like he’d found him sleeping in garbage. Dunny nearly punched him in the side of the head. So, what—’cos he was younger than them, ’cos he didn’t have no money and had been in trouble before, they reckoned he was on bail? That was bullshit.

  The muscled cop looked down at him with those cold eyes that made Dunny sweat. ‘Haven’t been peeking through bedroom windows again, have you?’

  No way could this wanker know about last night. Maybe he should tell them the big hero from Sydney was screwing her. That’d shut them up. No one round here liked the Evertons, not after what her dad had done.

  ‘Spit it out, Dunstan, or I’ll have you for loitering.’

  That was the tall, muscled one again. He looked familiar. Dunny could picture his bulked-up body in shorts and t-shirt, like maybe he’d seen him at the gym or something. Yeah, that was it. He hung out at Gym Junkies. Dunny had gone there a few times ’cos the girls were hot and most of them didn’t mind him looking. Wait ’til he told Kegs, he’d—

  But Kegs wasn’t around.

  Dunny said, ‘I wanna see that guy they pulled out of the river yesterday.’

  Muscles frowned. ‘What guy?’

  ‘The one on the telly.’

  They both looked blank, though maybe the fat one was faking it ’cos he kind of smirked.

  ‘They pulled a girl and an old bloke out of the mangroves near the old quarantine station.’ He almost shouted at them. ‘I wanna see him. I wanna know if it’s my mate.’

  Muscles raked his fingers through his dark hair. ‘Well, you can’t.’

  Heat flushed from Dunny’s belly into his chest. ‘Why not? I’ve got every right—’

  ‘Bugger this. I’m off.’ Fatty spat his chewy at Dunny’s shoes and turned away. ‘It’s too hot to stand around listening to this pervert.’

  Dunny lost it. Before he knew it, his fist connected with the back of the fat cop’s head. The guy dropped.

  ‘You idiot.’ Muscles yanked his hands behind his back and cuffed him. ‘Now I have to arrest you on my day off when all I wanted was a nice lunch.’

  Fatty rolled onto his back and sat up, pressing his hand against the spot where Dunny had decked him. ‘Got you now, you little bastard.’

  ‘He was riding me. Calling me a pervert. Shit. I didn’t mean to do it. He shouldn’t say those things if he didn’t wanna get decked.’

  ‘Do yourself a favour,’ muscles shoved him toward the stairs, ‘and keep your trap shut. Don’t make Legal Aid’s job any harder.’

  Dunny looked at the bland bricks of the cop station. He replayed all the times he’d stomped up those steps to report in or answer endless questions when he hadn’t hardly done nothing, just looked at a few girls or got too close to them on the beach.

  Shit. He’d done it this time.

  He’d only wanted to know if Kegs was okay.

  Chapter 33

  STUFF DRUMMOND! STUFF HIM. If he’d just been the man he was last night—gentle, caring, concerned about her—she would have forgiven his stupid crack about being her father’s daughter and told him everything. She couldn’t kid herself anymore. Drummond would never be anything other than an uptight cop.

  She didn’t need him. She didn’t need anyone. Gibson would tell her the truth, and then she’d show Drummond just how much she was an Everton. A survivor. Just like her dad said.

  Mina slammed the car door and edged past the huge removalist van blocking the back entrance to Gibson’s shop. The loading bay was filled with furniture. Odd, because he’d never accept a shipment so near to Christmas. He always closed for January and would never tie up his hard-earned money in goods that wouldn’t move for more than a month.

  Drummond’s accusations worried at her thoughts, but Gibson was as upright as they came. She couldn’t have worked for him for five years without knowing that, or without seeing some evidence of fraud—if that was what Drummond had been angling at. She’d been too angry to listen properly. Too busy willing him to say he needed her, that he’d rescue her from the mess she’d made. Idiot!

  In the loading dock were two strangers who looked like they scoffed steroids at every meal. They stood beside a grandfather clock in deep discussion. The clock was really something: regal and elegant. The carving of the peaceful countenance above the clock face told her it was a George Jones, but that was impossible.

  ‘You want somethin’, lady?’

  The muscle-bound men looked her over. It wasn’t a look of welcome.

  ‘Is this coming or going?’ she asked.

  The taller one rubbed his nose and sniffed. ‘Getting warehoused.’

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded the other, ‘some local dude.’

  Behind her, the back door slammed. She jumped.

  ‘Don’t you have your own business to run, Mina?’ Gibson used the ‘dad voice’ that always made her feel twelve years old. ‘You men are supposed to have this wrapped and crated by now. Stop standing around. Get back to work.’

  She stepped onto the loading dock and touched the clock case of burled walnut, so silky beneath her touch it was impossible not to let her fingers trace the intricate carving.

  ‘Is that a genuine George Jones?’

  ‘Don’t touch it. It’s worth a fortune.’ Gibson flung a cover over the entire clock.

  ‘It’s genuine?�
�

  ‘It is.’

  ‘But how on earth—’

  ‘You can see these men are busy,’ he snapped, ‘and I’m in the middle of a stock assessment. I don’t have time to stand around gasbagging.’

  He turned on his heel and stomped toward the shop.

  The two removalists chuckled. Her cheeks flamed. Gibson hadn’t spoken to her like that for a long time. After Drummond’s tirade, she didn’t have the tolerance for more, but she couldn’t afford to piss off Gibson. Not if she wanted a full and frank discussion. She followed him into the shop and didn’t speak until the door shut behind them.

  ‘Are you sure you can trust those two out there with something so valuable?’

  Gibson huffed a sigh. ‘They don’t know much, but they do know how to crate and handle with care. I wouldn’t use them otherwise.’

  ‘The clock must be worth well over a hundred thousand dollars.’

  ‘Closer to a quarter of a million.’

  Her heart skittered. Gibson didn’t have that sort of money.

  ‘It’s on consignment.’ Gibson busied himself making tea. ‘A client wants it to go to auction.’

  Consignment! What a relief. Not that she could ever have suspected Gibson of doing anything underhanded. She wouldn’t have even considered it if it wasn’t for Drummond. She didn’t want to think about him. She focused on the clock. If the case was genuine, the timber must be more than one hundred and fifty years old; a century and a half ago, someone had carefully crafted that soft-featured face. Who could own such a piece? Why would they want it to go to auction?

  ‘Sorry if I was terse, Mina. I’ve been overrun with this sudden consignment business.’ He turned, resettled his reading glasses. ‘Good Lord! Have you been crying?’

  She’d done her best to fix the smudged mascara, but there was only so much you could do with a wet finger and a car mirror. And Gibson was normally too busy preening himself to give her any scrutiny.

  ‘How well do you know Carlson?’ she asked.

  ‘Carlson?’ His eyebrows crawled toward his thinning hairline. ‘I do hope we aren’t going to have a problem. He is very cashed up.’

  ‘Don’t deal with him anymore. It will ruin your reputation.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve had a lover’s tiff.’

  A lover’s tiff? How could he be so blind? It was one thing for Linc to get it wrong—it suited him to think the worst—but Derek Gibson? He’d known her for most of her adult life. They were friends. Gibson lifted the tray with his precious tea—only one cup; clearly she wasn’t invited to stay—and marched into the showroom. Mina followed.

  ‘You need to listen to me, Derek. I’ve just seen Linc Drummond. He—’

  ‘That man! He’s done enough meddling.’ Gibson set the tray down on his desk with a clatter. ‘He scared off two potential clients with his black scowl. You girls might like his Heathcliff antics, but I don’t.’

  ‘He thinks you’re involved with Carlson. If he puts you in the picture, all your hard work is for nothing.’

  Gibson breathed so forcefully a stray nose hair vibrated. ‘If he suspects anyone, it is more likely you.’

  The accusation stung. All these years she had forgiven his snippiness and his snide asides when she’d done something wrong because she was grateful that he’d overlooked the burden of her name. Now she saw how it really was.

  ‘You’re forgetting something, Derek.’

  ‘What’s that?’ He couldn’t have sounded less interested.

  ‘Drummond likes how I look. If it comes to a choice, who do you think he’s going to protect?’

  Gibson threw down his pen. It clattered to the floor and rolled beneath an inlaid art deco cabinet.

  ‘Exactly how is Carlson supposed to ruin my business? Tell me that, young lady.’

  ‘He had me do some appraisals.’

  Gibson raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s what you’re trained for.’

  ‘At least one of the items he has is stolen.’

  ‘Rubbish!’

  ‘He admitted it.’

  He peered at her through his glasses. ‘He’s just testing you. I’ve told you time and again that you must be discreet, and running to me to tattle isn’t in the least discreet.’

  She’d risked Carlson’s wrath to save his reputation, and he was worried about her being indiscreet. Gibson’s arrogance made him blind to the danger Carlson brought. She had to make him see.

  ‘Derek.’ Mina leaned on his desk so that he couldn’t ignore her. ‘At least do a Google search of the items he had me appraise. See if they’re mentioned as stolen.’

  ‘I’m too busy to get caught up in your dramas.’

  ‘Do it for your reputation. Or do it to prove me wrong.’

  ‘Give me something to look for, then.’ His hands trembled as though the sudden thunder rumbling in the distance vibrated through his bones. ‘I’m not a mind reader.’

  She forced herself back to that room and the objects scattered at her feet, remembered the fuss Andrews had made about his precious candelabra. That must be in a news report somewhere.

  ‘Try the candelabra. Sevres. Pink vase with vignettes of Pan and a girl sleeping.’

  His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but he continued to stare at her. She looked back, refusing to break eye contact or be intimidated by his mind games.

  ‘Is that it?’ he said. ‘You expect me to find it with that scant information?’

  ‘I’ve seen you find more with less.’

  He tutted but keyed in the details. ‘Nothing. Next.’

  She gave him all the details she could remember about the Regency tea caddy. ‘Tortoiseshell. Horn banding. Excellent condition.’

  He keyed them in but again came up empty.

  ‘Are you sure?’ She leaned over to look at the computer screen.

  ‘Sit down, girl. All privileges ceased when you quit working for me.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me like that.’

  The words came out without thought. Gibson’s lip dropped in surprise. She could only stare at him as the silence closed in. She’d never spoken to him like that. She’d always taken it, laughed it off, wanting to like him, wanting him to like her. She was through apologising.

  ‘I deserve better, Derek.’

  He licked his lips and dropped his gaze to his desk. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’

  It should have been enough. It wasn’t. Over the years, too many people had tried to absolve their mean-spirited behaviour with a careless ‘sorry’.

  ‘It’s been a trying day.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’m attempting to get this stock organised so those boys can get their truck on the road before sunset.’

  ‘Before the warehouse closes?’

  ‘Warehouse? I don’t know about that. It’s off to auction in Sydney.’

  ‘The boys said it was local.’

  Gibson shook his head. ‘Honestly, you’d think they’d look at their manifest before they start a job.’

  Mina sank into the chair opposite his desk. Of course it wasn’t local. A clock like that wouldn’t be warehoused, and it wasn’t worth sending something of that quality to auction in a small place like Adelaide. It had to go to an auction house where it would gain the most attention, where the bidders had deep pockets and inflated egos. God, listen to her. If that’s what she really thought, she shouldn’t be in this business. It must be all that time in the poisonous company of Slab Carlson.

  ‘Give me another, if you’re going to.’ Gibson didn’t bother to conceal his impatience.

  She gave him another item and he keyed in the details.

  ‘As soon as he gets what he wants,’ he said, ‘he’ll be off to Sydney.’

  ‘Who?’

  The question was automatic. She knew who he meant.

  ‘You have a career to think about, Mina. Don’t let Drummond turn your head.’

  ‘I haven’t let him do anything.’

  She felt the heat in her face and was glad
the day had grown so dark. Linc had done much more than turn her head: he’d turned her life inside out. Every time she saw him, it was like her heart was beating outside her body, as if every nerve-ending anticipated his touch. She’d thrown herself at him, and like an addict that first taste of him had only fuelled her need. Even that crack about her dad hadn’t dented her thirst. While he berated her in the street, she’d willed him to say something, anything, to let her know he felt something for her. Not her body. Her. Mina Everton.

  ‘Absolutely nothing.’ Gibson sat back in his chair and clasped his hands over his belly. ‘Satisfied?’

  It didn’t make sense. Carlson needed leverage over her. He’d tried to get it by claiming he knew her dad. When that failed he would have done exactly what he claimed: get her fingerprints on stolen items so if she decided to take what she knew to the police—to Linc—she’d be implicated.

  She said, ‘Check the others.’

  Gibson touched the back of his hand to the teapot. ‘Now the damn tea’s cold. I told you I didn’t have time for this. I don’t know what you’ve got against Carlson, but I won’t buy into this anymore.’ He stood and snatched up his tray. ‘Leave me in peace. If you were serious about your own business, you’d be setting up for your grand opening.’

  Gibson stomped off to remake his tea. Mina checked her watch. It was after three. Her opening was a little more than twenty-four hours off, and she’d barely started. The ads had gone out, but she hadn’t followed up any of the contacts she’d made at Gibson’s soiree, hadn’t organised food or wine, hadn’t put the final polish on her stock. It was her dream and she was letting it slip through her fingers because of a ghost—a man who hadn’t the guts to stick around once her mother’s illness took hold.

  The clatter of china and the hiss of water running through the kitchen tap told her Gibson was making a fresh pot, though the first could hardly be undrinkable so soon after it was made.

  What good was a grand opening with this hanging over her? Drummond could turn up and make a spectacle of her. Or worse, Carlson and his giant thug could appear. She couldn’t survive another public humiliation. One way or another, she had to finish this.