Dead Men Don't Order Flake

by Sue Williams

  ‘I haven’t touched anything in here. I should probably get rid of her things, but…’ his voice trailed off.

  I picked my way over to the desk with a paddling kind of movement, like I was wading through a swamp. It was hard to tell what colour the carpet was, or if there was, in fact, any carpet, underneath all this crap. I wondered for a moment if all overachievers tend to have messy rooms. Achieving takes time—you wouldn’t want to waste any on tidying.

  ‘Did Natalie ever bring work home?’ I said.

  ‘Occasionally. Take anything you need.’ He swallowed. ‘Look, I don’t like being in here, to be honest. I’ll leave you to it—and I need to organise a few things for the Lions Club meeting tonight. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.’ He backed out rapidly.

  I started with the desk—covered with papers—news cuttings, magazines, brochures. I unearthed a plate covered with what might once have been segments of mandarin. I put the plate on the other side of the desk and then sifted through the papers. A pile of flyers. Climate change: what the science really says.

  I picked one up. It was for a talk later this week at the Turning Leaf Spectacular. Maybe it would be useful for Brad. I checked the desk drawers: three pens and an expired credit card.

  I took a look at the photos on the wall. One of Natalie in a parachute. Another of her in an off-road car, with a caption: At the Mallee Rally! Next to it, a photo of her climbing a rock face: Me leading Mantis at Arapiles!

  Looking at the rock-climbing photo made my knees wobble. I’m not fond of heights; it’s probably a good thing I live in pretty much the deadest-flattest area in Australia.

  After close to an hour of searching Natalie’s room, I was more than familiar with her tendency to chuck things on the floor, but no closer to understanding what the story was that she’d been working on. I went downstairs to find Gary.

  He was sitting at a laptop in the corner of the kitchen.

  ‘OK if I take this?’ I held out the flyer I found in Natalie’s room.

  ‘Sure. That’s the speaker I’m organising. Dr Eric Buckland. Come along, if you want.’

  ‘Not my kind of thing. My son might find it useful though, for one of his uni assignments.’

  ‘What’s he studying?’

  ‘Marine biology.’

  ‘Well, at least it’s not one of those ridiculous courses on renewable energy.’

  ‘You don’t like the idea of renewable energy?’

  ‘The idea is fine. The reality though…well, we don’t know enough about the dangers. It’s a damn good thing the council pulled the plug on that solar farm before we all came down with solar sickness. That poor man and his goats. It just shows we’re better off sticking with the things we know.’

  Christ, the Showbag effect—it’s everywhere.

  ‘I wouldn’t go around believing everything you hear, Gary. Showbag isn’t actually sick. And his goats are fine. In fact, I’m sure he made the whole thing up.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  Damn good question. For the attention, quite possibly. After all, he ended up in the paper. And he certainly got the attention of the local council, not to mention that government inquiry into the safety of solar power.

  ‘Anyway, I’m not sure how useful that flyer will be for your son. I don’t think many uni science courses teach the work of Dr Buckland.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He’s…got his own ideas. Not really establishment.’

  Maybe Buckland was one of these climate deniers Brad’s always on about.

  I put the flyer in my pocket. ‘I’ll go over to the Cultivator and talk to the editor. What’s his name again?’

  ‘Shane Millson. But he’s away, on long service leave. He left not long after Natalie died.’

  ‘Oh. So how do I contact him?’

  ‘Dunno. He’s travelling in Europe somewhere.’

  ‘That’s a bit…inconvenient.’

  Gary’s face was grim. ‘Seems very convenient to me.’

  17

  I drove past three upmarket restaurants, one boutique brewery and a bookshop. Plentiful retailers of antiques and expensive clothing, a wine merchant and a gelateria. All framed by that avenue of excessively spectacular autumn trees, of course. I pulled up beside a rose-filled park opposite the Muddy Soak Cultivator.

  Their office looked like it had been built around the time of Federation. A double-fronted wooden place with a wide verandah and huge windows—the kind you might see in a western, filled with wanted posters. The only thing filling up the Cultivator’s windows was a set of pale green vertical blinds.

  I stood there a moment and chewed a fingernail. If Morris was the book basher, would he recognise me? It was dark, I reassured myself. And if I hadn’t got a look at him, there was a good chance he hadn’t seen me properly either.

  I opened the door and a bell jangled. A waiting area to my right; three blue chairs and a low pine table. To my left, an office, with the door not quite closed. The sign on the door said Editor.

  Lots of posters on the walls: Our Thirsty Earth—arty shots of cracked soil; Our Land in Flood—aerial shots of roofs surrounded by brown water; Our Land Ablaze—photos of, well, you get the drift.

  Someone was talking behind the editor’s door. I took a seat; leafed through the pile of flyers from the table.

  It’s very annoying when people whisper, isn’t it? I mean, really, what is the point? Just send an email and save the rest of us the ear strain. Snippets of whispered conversation drifted out: Wasted here…Obituaries…Old bitch.

  Eventually, the whispering ended and a young man bustled out the doorway. Dark suit, red spotted tie, dark wavy hair. A touch overdressed for the Mallee, in my opinion. Maybe he was heading off to a funeral; probably had to do a bit of that in his line of work. He held his head jauntily to one side and grinned, like he was trying hard to convince himself he felt confident. There was a bruise on his left cheek.

  I stood up and held out my hand. ‘Ariadne…Smith, from, ah, Grooming Monthly. And you must be Shane Millson. Terrific to meet you at last!’

  He stared at me, mouth open.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about this,’ I waved a casual hand at my black eye. ‘You’re probably wondering if it was a barber unhappy with a review.’ I chuckled. ‘No, no. Just an office accident.’

  ‘Err—Morris Temple.’ He still had the shocked expression, but he gingerly held out his hand to shake mine.

  ‘Oh? I thought with the sign there…’ I waved at the door.

  ‘Shane’s on leave,’ his voice was flat.

  ‘But we had a meeting scheduled…’

  ‘Glenda Fitzgerald’s acting editor. She’s not in today but she’s contactable on her mobile.’

  ‘Oh, no need to disturb her. In fact…well, it’s a confidential matter…perhaps you can help?’

  His eyes flitted from side to side, as if he was thinking. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Shane probably mentioned our meeting…’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well,’ I turned on my best beam. ‘Firstly, let me tell you I’m an enormous fan of the Cultivator. A top-quality publication. And the people you feature are just fascinating.’ I glanced around the room in search of inspiration; saw a flyer for James Wong’s dog-washing business. ‘James Wong, for example. Now, didn’t you run a story on him recently?’ I crossed my fingers and hoped they’d run a bit of advertorial.

  He fiddled with a cufflink. ‘Yeah, that was one of mine.’

  ‘Oh? I seem to recall Shane telling me Natalie Kellett worked on features?’

  ‘She helped out. But I’m the one who does most of the work.’

  ‘I see.’

  I watched him carefully. A red stain was creeping up Morris’s neck.

  ‘Well, it was a good piece,’ I said. ‘Lovely style. This is a writer going places, I told myself. The fact is,’ I leaned in closer, ‘we’re keen to run a feature on James Wong in Grooming. Of course, we’ll need someone really good, w
ith local knowledge. We offer top whack, naturally. We don’t skimp on our people.’ I gave him a wide, toothy smile. The value of a credible cover story to an investigation can’t be overstated.

  ‘When I spoke to Shane about it, he quite generously suggested Natalie. Well, I emailed Natalie and she sent me some ideas. But then there was a…silence from her end. Of course, I understood once I heard…Anyway, the thing is, her terrible tragedy leaves me with a small gap.’ I paused significantly.

  Morris’s mouth opened and closed.

  ‘Why don’t we discuss this in Shane’s office? I’m sure he won’t mind,’ I said.

  He led the way into the office. I do like a young man who knows when to obey a person. I haven’t met many of them in my life, unfortunately.

  There was a limp-looking plant by the door. A large wooden desk with a pile of books at one end: A Year Full of Recipes; Grumpy Old Git’s Guide to Life; a Lonely Planet guide to Spain. A huge bookcase against the wall, filled with folded-up faded newspapers. Beside the desk a bin overflowed with cardboard coffee cups.

  Morris sat in the swivel chair and I settled myself into a seat on the other side of the desk.

  ‘So what did Natalie send you?’ said Morris.

  ‘Oh, just some initial ideas. There wasn’t time to get too far into the detail.’

  ‘What sort of ideas?’

  ‘Err, I’d have to dig out the emails. Anyway,’ I waved a hand, ‘no point in going over old ground. Obviously we’ll need to start again.’

  ‘Was it anything to do with the Ignition Group?’

  ‘Well, yes, I think she did mention that, actually.’ What exactly was the Ignition Group? A bunch of arsonists?

  He nodded. ‘And when was the last email you received from her?’

  ‘Ah, about a week before she died. Terribly sad.’

  I leaned forward, put an elbow on the desk. ‘You must really miss her, given how closely you worked together, co-writing articles and so on. And she seemed such a charming young woman, in her emails, at least. Although…I understand there was some…trouble? I won’t pry into details, but I must tell you I have a zero-tolerance approach to troublemakers. There’s no space for anyone who’s not a team player at Grooming Monthly.’ I gave him a firm look.

  ‘What? There’s no way I’m a troublemaker. Did Shane say that?’ He folded his arms.

  I leaned back in my chair. ‘I like you Morris, despite what Shane’s…suggested. In fact, I have an excellent feeling about you.’ Apart from the way he gave me the creeps. And that he’d quite possibly broken into my house. And hit me over the head. ‘I suspect you’re the journalist I’m looking for.’

  He gave me an uncertain look.

  ‘I understand you’re mostly focused on obituaries at the moment? We don’t do deaths in Grooming.’

  His face lit up momentarily with a smile. He looked quite different.

  The big downside of spinning the compelling cover story is that the spinner can end up feeling uneasy at her success; it’s never a good idea to feel sorry for your spinnee.

  ‘Natalie was the one who was the troublemaker.’

  ‘Oh?’

  A short silence. The key to an effective grilling is knowing when to wait.

  ‘Shane thought the sun shone out of her. He couldn’t see what she was up to.’

  ‘And that was…?’

  ‘Well, I don’t see what this has to do with you.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be nosy, of course not. But if we’re going to have a good working relationship, it’s really best if we’re honest with each other, don’t you think?’ I stretched my mouth into a smile.

  ‘Well, all I said was that I didn’t see the point in having this big story but not telling anyone you work with about it.’

  ‘And this big story was something Natalie was working on when she tragically…?’

  ‘Your James Wong story, I bet.’

  ‘And his involvement with the…Ignition Group?’

  He nodded.

  ‘So how did you hear about the Ignition Group, Morris?’

  ‘Ah, I just happened to overhear a phone conversation of Natalie’s.’

  ‘I see. And did you happen to pick up any other details…?’

  He folded his arms. ‘I don’t understand why you’re asking me all this. You’ve got the information in your emails.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m just trying…to get a feel for your investigative journalism skills.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t hear anything else. She saw me and hung up.’

  ‘Ah.’ I paused. ‘And I understand you were with her on the night she died? So, so terrible for you…’ I clicked my tongue.

  ‘Who told you that?’ A sharp look.

  ‘Shane.’ I shook my head sadly. ‘And were you injured yourself?’

  ‘How dare he. I wasn’t anywhere near her.’

  ‘Oh? He led me to believe…’

  He stood up. ‘Frankly, I don’t see what any of this has to do with your article.’

  ‘No, no, of course. But please, sit down and hear me out. What I’m thinking is that we might be able to extend the story into a whole series of articles. I mean, if it was as big as Natalie seemed to think.’

  ‘I really doubt the story has anything to do with dog shampoo.’

  I tsked. ‘I take it you’re not very familiar with our magazine? We run a wide range of pieces. And we’re always interested in noteworthy people. For example, we recently had a piece on…Madison Watkins.’ Madison would understand the imperative for some minor fiction. ‘She’s a fascinating person, and very well groomed; of course, that’s essential.’

  I smoothed some hair away from my black eye.

  ‘You’ve heard of Ms Watkins, I imagine? She’s very big in ferrets. A national ferret icon, in fact.’

  Morris shook his head. He sat down, though, which I took as an encouraging sign.

  ‘Anyway, I just mention that to help you understand the breadth of our remit. Now, here’s an idea: how about you give me a summary of the points you’d cover in the piece and I’ll let you know what I think.’ I leaned back in my chair; turned on what I hoped looked like a bored-editor expression.

  ‘That’s the trouble—I don’t know. Given that she wouldn’t talk about it.’

  ‘But surely an astute reporter like you would have conducted his own enquiries?’ Searched the laptop that was in the bag you bloody stole from me, for instance.

  ‘You probably know more than I do, from her emails. All I know is that she was very interested in Andy Fitzgerald.’ He glanced over my shoulder at the doorway. ‘Don’t mention this to Glenda, obviously.’

  ‘Of course. Discretion is my name. And why was she interested in him?’

  He stared. ‘Is this another test question?’

  ‘I suppose you could call it that.’

  ‘Let’s just say he’s a man with a dubious history.’

  I waited but he wasn’t forthcoming.

  ‘Any other…hints you picked up?’

  ‘She had a few trips to this hopeless flyspeck up north. Rusty Bore. You’ve probably never heard of it.’

  ‘Well, oddly enough I called in there recently. A very good takeaway, as I recall. So you think there’s a connection to her story there?’ What the hell would that be?

  He shrugged. Tapped something into Shane’s computer keyboard. Did some mouse-clicking.

  ‘Actually, Natalie did mention someone else in one of her emails…’ I fossicked in my head for the name, ‘Will Galang?’

  ‘What do you know about him?’ His voice was sharp.

  ‘Well, didn’t they know each other? I think Shane said…’ I smoothed down my skirt.

  But Morris was staring at Shane’s computer screen. After a moment, he looked up at me. ‘Why doesn’t your magazine appear when I search for it on Google?’ He gave me a long look, like he was memorising the details of my face.

  ‘Err…we prefer not to have an online presence. It’s a carefully th
ought out strategy, actually.’ I stood up and grabbed my bag. ‘Well, I’m afraid I’ve run out of time. Must dash. Terrific meeting you. I’ll be in touch very soon with the details of our offer.’

  I swept out as quickly as I could.

  Outside, I paused a moment. There was a brown Fairlane parked at the end of the street. I hopped into my Corolla and drove around to the other side of the park; pulled in behind an ancient oak tree. I grabbed Brad’s old binoculars from my glove box. If I leaned forward, binoculars jammed tight against the side window, I had a reasonable spot to stake out the Cultivator building.

  Ten minutes later, Morris came out of the office. He locked the door, then looked up and down the street. Started walking. Got into the brown Fairlane.

  Bingo.

  18

  Dean and Melissa live behind the Muddy Soak police station, on the southern edge of town, a tarted-up brick place with a picket fence framing a lush, green yard. A magpie warbled in the old sugar gum.

  I crunched my way across the gravel, lugging the esky with Dean’s sausage rolls. There was a lot of yelling going on inside the house; it sounded like Melissa’s voice. Maybe she was having a day off. Melissa works at the council but I must admit I’ve never entirely understood what she does. I think her job title is Let’s Be Healthy Together Mallee All Active Now Project Officer. The word Initiative might be in there somewhere too.

  A scowling Dean met me at the security door.

  ‘If you’d just give me a bloody break,’ he called out over his shoulder, then turned to face me.

  ‘Mum, why are you wearing that weird suit? You look terrible.’

  Always uplifting to get one of Dean’s pep talks.

  ‘Listen, you might want to pop out quickly and interview Morris Temple.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ he said.

  Dean’s thought processes weren’t whirring as rapidly as one might hope for.

  ‘He’s the owner of the brown Fairlane. You better move fast though. He’s in the process of nicking off.’

  Dean looked at me as if I’d offered him a Chiko Roll past its use-by. But maybe he was just in need of sustenance. A low blood-sugar level is no friend to speedy reasoning. I cleared my throat. ‘Brought you something for lunch.’