Dead Men Don't Order Flake

by Sue Williams

  ‘The rego, Vern?’

  ‘ASY 341.’

  Back in the shop, I was hurtled into an unexpected lunchtime rush: six customers. I gave them the extra-large welcome smile; tried to pretend I didn’t have a black eye. The Rusty Bore Takeaway is in no position to put off new customers. Still, the new stainless steel decor might compensate for my eye. I hoped.

  One of the customers was a stringy-looking bloke, moustached. He took off his Akubra with a sweeping cavalier type of movement. ‘So this is the famous Cass Tuplin, hey?’ He gave me a wide grin. Somehow, I didn’t have a good feeling about where this was headed.

  He put the Akubra back on and leant his skinny arms on my counter. ‘Comfort specialist, is what I hear. Discretion guaranteed.’

  He laughed. As did all his mates, standing in a King Gee-shirted row behind him. There’s nothing like a bit of side-splitting fnah fnah when you’ve got a cracking headache.

  ‘Not that I’d need that kind of service, of course. Get all mine for free.’ More laughter from Skinny Arms and his hilarity teamsters.

  ‘Take your order?’ I said. Did my best to flutter my eyelashes. Attempted a winsome smile. The things you have to do to sell a few chips.

  I waited while they guffawed, spluttered and slapped each other’s backs. Still, when they finally got round to ordering, it was enough to fill all my baskets: huge piles of chips, flake, dim sims and thirty-six potato cakes.

  I set to, getting it all into the oil.

  ‘I should really introduce myself properly,’ said Skinny Arms. ‘Pete Bamfield.’ He held out his hand; I wiped my hand on my floral apron and shook it.

  ‘What happened to your eye?’

  ‘Minor altercation. With a door.’

  ‘Ah. Sorry to hear it. Well, next time he…it…bothers you, why don’t you give me a call?’ He held out a business card.

  I took the card. P. L. Bamfield. Muddy Soak Gravel International. I recognised his name, once I had the context. Peter Bamfield is known as the Gravel Baron in Muddy Soak. Third-generation gravel dynasty. There’s always a Bamfield in the paper—opening a building, attending a charity dinner, doing something magnanimous. Unfortunately none of that magnanimity has ever got as far as Rusty Bore.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘But you don’t need to worry about me. I can look after myself.’

  ‘Uh huh.’ He clearly wasn’t buying it. ‘Anyway, up here with the Lions Club today. Replacing the fences at the McKenzies’ place.’

  The McKenzies lost a heap of fences in the bushfire that whipped through two months ago.

  I turned back to the baskets. Slipped in a few extra dim sims gratis, courtesy of the management. Complete tool he might be, but a stringy bloke like Bamfield could certainly afford to eat. And a few more Lions Club visits could make quite a difference to Rusty Bore.

  A quick call to Dean to phone in the rego of the brown Fairlane. He wasn’t there, so I left it in his message bank. Sent it as a text as well, just in case.

  A late lunch: a boiled egg and toast. I made some plans. On Monday I’d go to Gary’s place in Muddy Soak; look through Natalie’s room. And call in on Dean with some peace-making sausage rolls.

  I was just settling into my egg when my phone rang. I grabbed it from my handbag. But it wasn’t ringing, and come to think of it, it wasn’t my ring tone either. It took me a moment to realise. It was the phone I’d been finger-swiping.

  I snatched it off the table. The name flashing up was Jazz.

  I threw in a quick half-mouthful of egg before I answered.

  ‘Yeah, hi,’ I said, doing my best to channel a deep-voiced book basher. When you operate in an investigative capacity, there are occasions when you need to temporarily deepen your voice, so it’s something I’ve taken a more than casual interest in. There’s no entirely foolproof method, but these are the two that work best for me: one: half-swallow a Panadol; the trick is to let it sit at the very top of your throat. Once it’s uncomfortable, and you think you might vomit, make the call; or two: throw in a small mouthful of food. You have to use minimal words and get them out quickly, before choking.

  So it was fortuitous that I happened to have that boiled egg to hand when I grabbed the phone.

  ‘What the hell have you done?’ A female voice on the other end. Familiar, somehow.

  ‘No idea what you’re on about.’ I said. Another quick nibble of egg.

  ‘Where were you last night?’

  ‘Depends who’s asking.’

  ‘You know it’s me, you bastard. Did you…hurt her?’ Her voice was a whisper.

  ‘Who?’ I swallowed. Threw in another mouthful.

  ‘Cass Tuplin, you idiot.’

  She knew my name?

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’ Not a bad effort, if I say so myself: always good to fire out an open-ended question.

  ‘Who knows what you want.’ A pause. ‘Where were you that night, anyway?’

  ‘What night?’

  ‘You know what bloody night. Did you…do something to Natalie? Tell me the truth.’

  Shit, I was onto my last skerrick of egg. I shoved it in. ‘Let’s meet. I’ll tell you everything.’

  A pause. ‘You sound weird.’

  ‘Got a cold.’ I coughed on the egg. ‘Feel like shit, actually.’

  ‘All right. You’ve got five minutes. After my kickboxing practice. Six o’clock tonight. Outside the community centre.’

  ‘Where?’ I croaked.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake. In Hustle, you dickhead.’

  7

  I drove along Hustle’s main street, past that damn mural: a multicoloured council-sponsored painting of the Mallee Farm Days. Endless tractors, smiley happy children, contented chooks. No mention of how Hustle stole those Days from Rusty Bore, of course.

  I parked outside the community centre, a red-brick building with a long crack running down a wall; used to be the high school. There’s no high school in Hustle now, these days the kids are bussed to Muddy Soak. But the community centre still has a multitude of uses: community lunches, Men’s Shed, job seekers agency, evangelical meetings, patchwork group, reiki for beginners. And kickboxing.

  It was almost six o’clock.

  I sat waiting in my car and watched the clouds move slowly across the sky: high ice-ripples, white puffs that reminded me of Ernie’s early-morning hair and, lower in the sky, thick blankets of dark grey. Maybe we’d get rain.

  A few moments later a group of young women spilled down the steps, heading for their cars. One girl lingered, waiting by the entrance. Freckly face, dark hair in a ponytail. She was wearing a huge blue T-shirt and black leggings. She hugged herself tightly, like she was cold, or scared. Maybe both. Not really the kind of demeanour you’d expect of a kickboxer.

  I got out of my car and walked over towards her.

  ‘Jacinta?’

  She turned her head, a quick movement like a frightened bird.

  ‘Cass. I heard you had a breakin. Are you OK?’

  I waved a hand. ‘I’m fine. You should see the other bloke.’

  A quick intake of breath. ‘Oh, did you get a look at him?’

  ‘No, unfortunately. Anyway, I was…just passing and saw you here. Need a lift home?’ I said.

  ‘Err, no. I’m meeting a friend.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  She looked everywhere except at me. ‘I doubt it. He’s… from Muddy Soak.’

  ‘Mind if I wait with you?’

  ‘I’m a bit, um, busy.’

  ‘Waiting’s a very busy activity, I know.’

  She hugged herself tighter.

  ‘Jacinta, what really happened to Natalie Kellett?’ My voice was low.

  ‘What? She…died. In an accident.’

  ‘Something tells me you’re not so sure about that.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You and Natalie were friends, weren’t you?’ A guess, but worth a try.

  ‘I knew her, yeah.’ She
twisted a stray strand of her long dark hair around a finger.

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, her father’s asked me to look into her death. As I think you know. I met him in the Slick Café, remember?’

  ‘Did you?’ A not-very-successful casual tone.

  ‘Yes. And it would help a lot if I knew a bit more about her.’

  ‘Yeah, well…’

  I waited.

  ‘Natalie wasn’t a person who liked attention.’

  ‘You mean she was shy?’ A mozzie landed on my cheek. I flicked it away.

  ‘Not exactly. Just…focused.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Anyway, my friend will be here any minute. Don’t let me hold you up, Cass.’

  ‘Where was your friend last night, anyway?’

  The colour drained from her face. ‘What?’

  ‘Jacinta, it was me you spoke to on his phone today. Who is this guy and why did he break into my place?’

  She stared. Opened and closed her mouth. Then she turned and ran.

  I ran after her, my feet pounding the concrete, watched her jump into a red Honda and slam the door.

  I knocked on the window. Shouted through the glass, ‘Jacinta. Please. If you’re in trouble, let me help.’

  But she gunned the car, revving like she was on the starting grid at Phillip Island. Then, tyres screaming, the Honda hurtled out of there.

  8

  I leapt into the Corolla and turned the key in the ignition. It didn’t start. I turned it again. No go. I waited a moment and then tried it again. Finally, the engine fired. By the time I turned out of the car park, Jacinta’s Honda was long gone.

  I drove around the streets of Hustle, looking everywhere. No sign of Jacinta or her Honda. I didn’t even know where she lived. Bugger.

  The sun was low in the sky, the light growing dim. I pulled out my phone and dialled Gary Kellett.

  ‘Gary, was Natalie friendly with someone called Jacinta Thomas? Works in Hustle, not sure where she lives exactly.’

  ‘Never heard of her,’ he said, the man whose daughter told him everything. I said goodbye and hung up. Tapped my fingers on the steering wheel. A thought. Jacinta’s sister Taylah worked on the desk at the retirement home. Right, I’d make a little social call on Ernie tomorrow: maybe Taylah could somehow help.

  Not much of a sunset: the rain started as I left town, spattering at first, tickling the car roof and the ground. It grew heavier, a drumming, music on the windscreen. I wound down the window and sucked in a lungful of rain-scented air.

  I peered through the smeary windscreen. Grey sky, brighter grey in the distance. Grey-white striped wheat paddocks. My windscreen wipers squeaked. I’d have to get the rubbers replaced. Another thing requiring money I didn’t have.

  I passed a blown-out tyre by the road. Glanced in my rear-view mirror. Visibility wasn’t the best, but was the car behind me kind of dark in colour? Brown? Possibly a Fairlane? The left-hand fog light cover was missing. I squinted, but couldn’t make out the number plate.

  Up ahead, I saw a road sign, a turn-off to the left. I took the turn and headed down the gravel road. Checked the mirror again. The car behind took the turn as well.

  OK, that confirmed the bastard was following me. I’d turn my car around, get a good look at the driver as I swung by him and then head back to the highway. Phone Dean with a full description.

  My car engine stuttered and then died. The Corolla rolled to an apologetic halt.

  I turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. I tried again. No. Pumped the accelerator, tried again. Shit.

  I flicked a look in my mirror. The car behind was a dark shape in the gloom. It pulled over beside the road, only a couple of car lengths away.

  I grabbed my phone. No signal. My heart thudded in my chest. I scanned through my windscreen, thinking fast. The farm around here sold a while back; I had no idea who owned it now. But there, ahead, across the gloomy wheat paddocks, I could see a light. Someone was home. Maybe they had a working phone; maybe whoever lived there was kind and strong and helpful.

  Or a toothless, axe-wielding maniac.

  I tore briefly at a fingernail. Well, no point sitting here waiting for my doom. I flung open my car door, ran over to the fence and wriggled under it. Not electric, thank God. I stood upright quickly, and then ran like hell across the damp wheat stubble.

  The only sounds were my panting and the crunching sound of my feet against the stubble. Painful bloody stuff, wheat stubble. It scratched and tore at my ankles. The rain grew heavier, the wind driving needle-sharp water droplets into my face. I heard a car door slam. I glanced behind. Was that someone behind me, back there in the gloom?

  I ran faster, my breath choking out in gasps. My legs burned; my hair and clothes were saturated. The house grew closer; I could see movement across a lit-up window. Another fence. Bugger, this one was electric: telltale orange sheep netting. On or off—that was the question.

  I slowed and glanced over my shoulder. A shape running towards me; slightly lopsided, limping. Getting closer. I sucked in a frantic breath. Sprinted the last few steps towards the fence and took a leap up, up, over the netting, my best effort for high-jump gold.

  Agh. Not high enough. My foot trailed against the fence top just as my other foot touched the soil; the kick of the electric current jolted through my body. I crashed to the ground, face-first in the mud. Lay there a second, my breath juddering.

  A goat mehh-ed at me. I groaned, then crawled to my feet. My left foot squelched, shoeless. I spent a frantic, fruitless moment looking for the shoe.

  Just a few steps now to the house. A dog started barking. I ran across the gravel yard towards the back door. Flew up the three concrete steps. My socks full of mud. I’m fond of rain, but not when it’s in my shoes. Shoe.

  I banged on the door; leaned, hard-panting, against the frame.

  The door opened. A tall bloke; blond hair gleaming in the light.

  ‘Cass?’

  Unbelievable. It was Leo Stone.

  9

  Leo grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. I stood, bent over, hands on my knees, dripping mud onto the floor. Sucking at the air, trying to catch my breath.

  ‘What’s going on, Cass? And what happened to your eye?’

  ‘Brown Fairlane. Breakin. Stalker.’ I managed in staccato gasps.

  Once my breath started to remember normal, I explained as quickly as I could.

  ‘Right.’ He frowned. Marched over to the kitchen door and went outside. Two minutes later, he was back. ‘No sign of anyone. He could be out somewhere on the road though. You OK to come with me? I don’t want to leave you alone.’

  ‘I’m head-to-foot mud, Leo. I’ll ruin your sheepskin covers.’

  He laughed. ‘No sheepskin to worry about these days.’

  I walked out to his Land Rover and hopped into the passenger side. He got in, fired it up; put on the heater. My teeth were chattering.

  He glanced at me. Reached over to his back seat and handed me a blanket.

  When we got out to the road, the brown car was gone. No sign of anyone. Leo drove me back to his house and bustled me inside. While I dripped more mud onto his kitchen floor, shivering, he found me a huge fluffy blue towel, then pointed me in the direction of the bathroom. As I left, he started lighting a row of tea lights on the kitchen table.

  The shower was hot and welcome. I held my face up under the flow of water. My swollen eye throbbed. I was tempted to stay in there for a lasting period and not just because I was cold, mud-encrusted and slightly overwhelmed. Where I’d ended up was also unsettling. Of all the kitchens in all the world, I had to run into Leo Stone’s.

  I turned off the water, reluctantly, and got out of the shower. Towelled myself. A tantalising kitchen smell wafted in. Onions, meat, something peanutty. A sudden thought: Serena. Oh shit, that was probably their dinner he was cooking. Maybe she was due back any minute. A cosy dinner for two, followed by an energetic evening. Of c
ourse, that’s what the tea lights were about.

  Leo had acted all cool and calm, but he’d be keen to bundle me out of here as soon as common decency allowed. It never helps when a woman arrives home for the cosy-tea-light-sexual-frenzy only to discover the fella’s old flame in the shower.

  Even if the flame is only an ancient-history-flame, busy guttering out. And immune to men, or as near as humanly possible.

  I glanced around the bathroom—it didn’t strike me as advertising the presence of a woman. No bath bombs, no mousse or candles. Maybe she didn’t live here? So it was a wooing romantic early-days type of evening? Of course—what bloke would bother with tea lights once he’d got beyond the groundwork?

  I groaned. Clearly, I’d arrived at precisely the wrong moment, just in time to do the complete gooseberry routine. I took a deep breath. Well, at least I was no longer a mud-encrusted gooseberry.

  I stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a couple of acres of towel and headed into the kitchen. Leo was standing by the stove, stirring the tantalising-smelling something in a huge pot.

  ‘That feel better?’ He smiled; picked up some clothes from a chair: a big, blue blokey shirt and way-too-narrow-hipped jeans. He held them out.

  ‘Thanks. Although those jeans are the wrong shape.’

  He looked me up and down with an appraising eye, the smile broadening. The kind of look that’s no help to a person in the process of cultivating her immunity.

  ‘Sorry, but I’m right out of my stock of woman-shaped clothing, Cass.’

  ‘Got a pair of tracky dacks?’

  Ten minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom a second time. The tracky dacks and shirt-tent combo didn’t make the greatest fashion statement, but it was dry and not plastered with rust-coloured mud. I sat down at the kitchen table. It was very dim in that kitchen—just flickering shadows from the row of tea lights. I’d phone for a taxi in a moment; get the hell out of here and leave them to their romantic dinner.

  Leo handed me a mug of hot chocolate. I wrapped my hands around the big red mug and took a warming sip.

  He moved back to the stove. ‘Hungry?’