by Sue Williams
Dean’s been pretty stressed since his transfer to Muddy Soak. Melissa hates living there and frankly you don’t want Melissa unhappy. Maybe that’s the reason Dean’s thrown himself into the job with so much enthusiasm. Jaywalking fines, for instance. Muddy Soak’s only got one set of traffic lights, and Dean likes to hang around there with a little clipboard. He’s even fined one of his relatives, as in me. There are times when I wonder who it is in this family Dean thinks he takes after. Not his mother, that’s for sure.
I headed past the red-brick post office, the Commonwealth Bank, the newsagent. Hustle has an unwashed look, seemingly indifferent to the several decades that have drifted by since the 1970s. I passed the TV shop, its broken front window ‘repaired’ with orange cellophane.
I parked and headed into the Slick Café. Marched over the black and white tiles; past the orange booths and the rest of the 1950s fit-out. Laminex-topped tables, jukebox, aluminium milkshake cups, you name it. They stopped short of the smallpox and polio.
Only one customer: a man, sitting at a booth up the back, hunched over a phone. Dark messy hair; unshaven. Wearing a stained grey trench coat. A bit like Columbo, only even scruffier. There was a green overnight bag by his feet.
‘Gary Kellett?’
He looked up; nodded.
I slid into the booth seat opposite him.
The waitress, Jacinta, swung her freckles and pony tail over to our table. I ordered a strong cup of tea, milk, no sugar.
‘I’ll have a beer, thanks. Desert lager.’ Gary pushed his phone into his pocket.
‘Err, we don’t serve alcohol at breakfast.’
‘I’ll be ordering lunch shortly.’
‘Sorry, kitchen won’t be ready for lunch for a couple of hours. Do you a tea?’
He scowled; clenched a hand into a white-knuckled fist on the table.
Jacinta shot back behind the counter and got on with making the tea.
Gary pulled a silver flask out of a trench coat pocket, took a sip, slipped it back.
‘So, ah, what can I do for you, Gary?’
‘It’s about Natalie. Her birthday yesterday. She would have been twenty.’ He looked down at the table.
‘I’m sorry.’
The tea arrived: Gary’s in a blue teapot, matching blue cup; mine in pink.
He pulled out his flask and emptied it into his cup, then took a swig.
‘I still catch myself expecting to see her, hear her voice.’ He put down the cup. ‘Anyway, you come highly recommended.’
‘Edna?’
‘Yeah. Look, all I want is justice for Natalie. Surely that’s not too much to ask?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘She was murdered three months ago. Twenty-eighth of January, to be precise.’ He stared down at his cup a moment, then looked back up at me.
‘I’ve got nowhere with the police. Bloody nowhere. If I could just find…something tangible. Something to make them reopen the investigation.’
‘Gary,’ my voice was gentle, ‘why do you think Natalie was murdered?’
There was a crashing sound behind me. I whirled around. Jacinta stood there, a hand at her mouth, smithereens of broken glass around her feet. ‘I’ll just get the broom.’ She scuttled off.
‘Natalie’s car crash wasn’t an accident. She was a careful driver. Natalie was always a good girl,’ he said.
For God’s sake. Why is it always so bloody vital that a girl be good? You never hear anyone say, ‘Oh, she’s a bit wild, but girls will be girls, you know,’ with a careless little spread-out of the hands and a light, accepting laugh.
Swishing noises from behind me as Jacinta swept up the glass.
I cleared my throat. ‘No one can be careful all the time.’
‘Of course, I know that. But she was worried, really worried, about something.’
If being worried indicated you were about to be murdered, the citizens of Rusty Bore would have the homicide squad run off their feet.
‘And she’d stopped talking to me. For weeks, this had gone on. Normally she told me everything.’
He really thought his nineteen-year-old daughter told him everything?
‘I’m sure it was something—or someone—at work. Natalie was a journalist at the Muddy Soak Cultivator.’
The weekly paper in Muddy Soak. Heavily into heritage, thus the weird title. Makes it sound less like a newspaper and more like a tractor brochure. Owned by the Fitzgerald family and has been for generations.
The thought of the Fitzgeralds never helps me relax. Breathe, just breathe, I told myself. This won’t have anything to do with Glenda.
‘Shane Millson, the editor, he was up to something. I don’t know what, but he was bloody unhelpful when I phoned that night.’
‘What night?’
‘The night of Natalie’s crash. I phoned Millson to find out where she was—it was late, really late, and Natalie hadn’t come home. I knew she had a deadline, but it wouldn’t normally keep her as late as that.
‘Millson had no idea where Natalie was and didn’t care, he told me. I asked him what the hell he meant by that. He just said, “She walked out on the job today.”
‘“What do you mean?” I said. It made no sense. Natalie loved that job. Bastard told me he had a deadline and hung up.’ Gary took another gulp from his hipflask-charged cup. ‘I waited a bit longer, hoping she was on her way home. After another hour, I tried calling her friends, but no one knew where she was. Finally, I phoned the police. Reassuring platitudes.’
My phone buzzed. Dean. Well, he’d have to wait a tick. I put it away.
‘And then I saw a post-it note on the kitchen floor. It must have fallen off the fridge.’
‘What did it say?’
‘That she’d been called away suddenly for work. She didn’t say what about or where.’
‘But hadn’t she just walked out on the job?’
‘Yeah, it didn’t make sense.’
‘And you told Dean, err, the police all this?’
‘Of course. I called as soon as I found her note. Got the reassurance routine again. Then, a couple of hours later, he came to my door, took off his hat and said her car had been found by the road…’ He looked down at the table, blinking.
Jacinta floated by and asked if I’d like another cuppa. I shook my head and she bustled off.
Another buzz from my phone. ‘Sorry, Gary, hang on.’
A text from Dean. Why aren’t you answering? Call me.
Yes, when I get a bloody minute, Dean. I have a life, you know. I put the phone away.
‘Millson said afterwards he had no idea why Natalie had written that note. He hadn’t sent her anywhere to do a story. Especially given that she’d chucked in the job.’ His voice rose. ‘But Natalie would never lie to me. And why the hell would she walk out like that, anyway? That job was everything to her. She worked so hard to get it.’
‘Millson say why Natalie resigned?’
‘Personality clash, he said. Well, I know she didn’t find him easy to work with. He’s a stickler for the old ways. Insisted she learn shorthand, which she wasn’t too impressed with. But she’d never leave. Not like that. And before you ask, no, she didn’t take drugs. And no, she wasn’t mentally ill.’
‘Well, how would you know that, Gary?’
‘I just bloody know, OK?’
‘Your…Natalie’s mum have any ideas?’
‘Ange died twelve years ago.’
‘Right. What did, ah, the police officer say about all this?’
‘He suggested I seek counselling.’
‘But he did…look into what Natalie was doing that night?’
‘He spoke to Millson, who gave him the same story.’ Gary stared at his hands a moment. ‘If it wasn’t work, what was Natalie doing?’
I cleared my throat. I felt for him, of course. But all Gary had was a parent’s rage, and that was probably at himself because Natalie hadn’t trusted him with whatever was worrying her. An Olympic long jump from there to murder.
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‘Gary, look, it’s pretty unlikely I’ll be able to tell you what was on Natalie’s mind. And even if I could, it mightn’t make you any happier.’
‘One piece of evidence, that’s all I need. Then surely the police will have to reopen the investigation.’ His voice was a whisper. ‘I need to understand what happened to her. Please? Natalie was my only child.’ He looked down; lots of rapid blinking.
I groaned. I’ve always been a sucker for a man in tears.
‘OK,’ I heard myself saying. ‘I’ll try talking to the cops.’ I wasn’t so sure about that. Dean can be very pernickety about minor details like private investigator licences. And parental interference.
‘If I don’t have something for you by the end of the week, we’ll call it quits.’
‘Thank you,’ he whispered. Reached down, picked up the overnight bag and put it on the table. ‘Take this. Natalie had it in the car with her.’
He had a worryingly hopeful–grateful expression on his face.
‘Don’t get your hopes up too much, Gary. Just a week, OK?’
‘Yes. But Edna told me you never give up. That’s exactly what I need.’
I thought about that as I walked out to my car, lugging Natalie’s bag. It’s true I don’t like giving up; a bloke once told me that people shouldn’t underestimate my tenacity. I didn’t mind that. Although I did mind when he tried to kill me.
3
Back in my car, I pondered. Gary had agreed to my terms without protest: the Monday Family Special. That’s code, of course. Given Dean’s disapproval of my activities, I figured it’d be best to make it sound like something shop-related. I’m actually closed on Mondays. The harmonious mother–cop-son relationship is one that requires a degree of footwork.
The zip on Natalie’s bag was stuck. After a short struggle, I managed to force it open. I had a quick rootle through. One brown leather handbag, a mangled laptop and a charger. The laptop didn’t respond to my attempts to switch it on.
I pulled out the contents of her handbag. A leather purse with a jazzy floral design, containing a drivers licence, credit card, library card and a fifty-dollar note. One lipstick, Russian Red. A mobile with a cracked screen. A scrunched-up receipt. One fluff-covered musk stick, half a pencil and a tin of pepper spray.
I suddenly had a chilled sensation on the back of my neck, the kind of weird feeling you get when you think someone is watching you. I whirled around, peered out my back window. Nobody there. Just an old car parked behind. Chocolate-brown Fairlane, early seventies by my guess. Settle, Cass. Dean’s unwavering surveillance can get to a person.
I opened the envelope Gary had given me and took out Natalie’s photo. Red hair in a thick plait hanging over a shoulder. Large blue eyes, a big smile, but somehow a little sad-looking. Although that was possibly just because I knew she was dead. She was hugging a small dog. White, fluffy, with a torn ear.
I fiddled with her phone, but that wouldn’t switch on either. Sifted through everything from her bag again. Eyed the scrunched-up receipt. I unscrunched it; smoothed it flat. The top left corner had been ripped off.
…asey International
BULLETS $5.95
BULLETS $5.95
BULLETS $5.95
BULLETS $5.95
BULLETS $5.95
FIRE DRUM $43.95
TOTAL $73.70
GST $6.70
Jesus, what was Natalie doing with all that? I chewed my lip. Grabbed my phone and dialled.
‘Dean? Something important I need to discuss with you.’
‘Hang on. Bloody alpacas.’ He sounded breathless.
‘Alpacas?’
‘Hundreds of them. All over the road. Agh! The bastard spat on me.’
I hoped he wasn’t trying to book them for jaywalking.
‘Err, shouldn’t you be focused on something a bit more…significant?’
A grinding sound that might have been Dean’s teeth. Or maybe it was the alpacas—I’m not right up with their range of sounds.
‘Point number one: animals on the road constitute a traffic hazard. And point two: I do not need my mother telling me how to do my job.’
Right. ‘Anyway, what I wanted to talk to you about was…’
‘Why you met Gary Kellett this morning.’
Dean’s mind-reading skills can be a little terrifying.
‘No point lying about it, Mum. I know what you’re up to. Claire told me.’
Thanks, Claire. All I’d said to her was that I was meeting a potential client. And I’m sure I’d asked her to keep it confidential.
‘Yeah, funny you should mention him. It’s actually to do with his daughter.’
‘Don’t get yourself involved in police business.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ Generally, the best way to handle Mr Defensive is to appear to agree with him. Then you can quietly get on with whatever it is you’re planning to do. Once you’ve worked out what it is you’re planning to do.
‘Anyway, I just wanted to tell you about this receipt,’ I said.
‘Bit busy here. You’ll have to save your latest shop drama for some other time.’
‘It’s nothing to do with the shop. The receipt was in Natalie Kellett’s bag.’
‘I want you staying right away from Gary Kellett.’
‘Point number one: I’ll talk to whoever I like. And point two: it’s still a free country, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ Two can play at this bloody numbers game. ‘Now, this receipt…’
‘Listen, Mum, don’t go falling for Kellett and his conspiracy theories. Natalie died in a simple car accident, speeding. Tragic, I know. And, yes, Kellett’s gone into decline since she died, poor bastard. But that doesn’t mean there was anything dodgy about her death.’
‘So you looked into it all, in detail?’ He’d know about the receipt, course he would. Good old Dean, he’d have the whole thing under control. Wouldn’t he?
‘Yep. Third time unlucky for her.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘She’d been booked twice for speeding. Shoulda taken her licence off her.’
‘But Gary said Natalie was a careful driver.’
He snorted. ‘That’s one parent who managed to close his eyes to his child’s behaviour. She was travelling at 125 k’s an hour when she swerved off Jensen Corner and hit that tree. Bane of my existence, that corner.’
Bane of everyone’s.
‘So, anyway, you looked into the receipt? The weird note she left Gary? The pepper spray?’
‘I’m not at liberty to share confidential police information. But she wasn’t being chased by gangsters, if that’s what Kellett’s told you. It was a car accident. And all the necessary investigating into it has been done. By me. A proper job, done properly by a professional.’
Somehow I wasn’t reassured.
He swept on. ‘What I can tell you is: speed kills. That’s why it’s vital to uphold the law. Not that anyone ever thanks me for it.’
I wasn’t about to thank anyone for my jaywalking fine. I tried another tack. ‘Did Natalie have a gun licence?’
A groan. Maybe it was just an alpaca trying to deal with Dean.
‘I really don’t need my mother running around doing one of her Miss Marple impersonations.’
A: I’m not that old. And B: ‘Don’t be so damn patronising, Dean.’ I took a deep breath.
‘Anyway, I’ve got to get back to these alpacas. By the way, how much is Gary paying you?’
Ha, I can recognise a trick question when I’m lobbed one. ‘No, no. Can’t charge anything, no licence, as you know.’
I hung up. Sat there a moment, attempting some focused breathing, like Claire always says I should after I’ve been near Dean.
You’d imagine, wouldn’t you, that if, say, there was this person (and, really, she could be anyone) who was asked from time to time to investigate various people’s problems, and this person happened to have a son who was a cop, that the person and her son might occasion
ally work together to solve those people’s problems. I mean, it’d be an efficient sort of approach, surely?
The person and her not-so-imaginative but (if he was prepared to work at it) potentially affectionate son might discuss all the tricky ins and outs of the investigation, taking their minds off their own problems and life disappointments for a while. They might even have a laugh sometimes, like the person (the first one) used to do a million years ago with the son’s father. Before the father died and it turned out he was just a lying treacherous bastard anyway.
No, the focused breathing wasn’t doing it. I glanced at my watch: already eleven. I’d better get back to the shop. I started my car; pulled out from the kerb.
Maybe I’d rustle up a batch of sausage rolls. Dean’s fond of them, he told me once in a rare relaxed moment. I could call in on him, 1950s-home-based-mother style, complete with wicker basket. Who knows, after a couple of sausage rolls Dean might be more open to finding out what Natalie Kellett was up to with those bullets.
I drove past Hustle’s row of pepper trees, dusted with cream blossom. At the derestricted sign, I put my foot down, then slowed down to swerve around a dead magpie on the road. The brown car behind me swerved as well.
I passed a property surrounded by a double fence high enough to keep out any record-breaking kangaroo, a roll of barbed wire along the top. The abandoned Solar Logic site. There was a piece of tumbleweed flattened against the wire.
I hoped Claire had managed OK in the shop. She’d arrived this morning with a book on how to make your own cheese and a magazine entitled Slow. It was possible we’d have to have a little pep talk about customer expectations. Slow isn’t a word that’s embraced in the fast-food trade.
I flicked a look in my rear-view mirror. The brown Fairlane was still there. It had a missing fog light cover. Not a car I recognised, so not a local. Maybe it was just someone who didn’t mind the peace and quiet of back roads. That’s one thing we offer here, by the bucketload: empty bitumen.
I glided by the miles of wheat paddocks. Leo had a Fairlane, way back; well, his cousin Showbag did. Not brown though, royal blue. Leo, his red Stratocaster and his cousin’s borrowed Fairlane were a bit of desirable combo in Rusty Bore circles; this was back when Australia had a car industry.