Dead Men Don't Order Flake

by Sue Williams

  ‘Melissa and me are on a diet.’

  ‘Right.’ I backed away. ‘I’ll leave you to it. These homemade sausage rolls will go off, I guess. Never mind.’

  ‘Ah…come in through the station entrance.’ He spoke in an urgent whisper.

  I hoofed around to the front and up the steps into the police station. My shoes clicked over the floor tiles. I stood and waited at the long brown desk.

  ‘Yes, yes, for God’s sake, Melissa,’ he called out behind him as he came in through the side door.

  Dean and Melissa have been married almost ten years. Their kids are being home-schooled—Melissa’s idea. She laid down that condition when they moved from Hustle. Melissa’s got a range of conditions laid down.

  ‘No way my girls are going to that dreadful local school,’ she told me when I popped in after their move. I’d brought her a plate of lemon slice, since she’d just started on the fruit diet. She peered at the plate. ‘Do these contain sugar, Cass?’

  ‘Err, no. Touch of condensed milk. And butter, of course. But they’re very lemony. Just bursting with lemon zest.’

  She pushed the plate away. ‘Yes, I’m determined to shield our girls from all that negative socialisation. So they’ll be schooled at home. By their father. And me, of course, when I get time. But it’s easier for Dean, since he works from home, essentially.’ It was unclear how wandering alpacas fitted into that.

  I put Dean’s sausage rolls up on the front counter.

  He smiled—Dean looks a whole lot nicer when he smiles. If only he did it a bit more often.

  He led me through to his lunch-slash-interrogation room, where we got settled with a cuppa and the sausage rolls. A companionable silence for a few moments, while I gave him time to let some nutrition penetrate his brain. The only sound was teeth on crisp pastry.

  Finally, I said, ‘What I’m talking about, Dean, is the car that was behind me on the road that day. Morris Temple, driver of that brown Fairlane, is quite possibly the person who broke into my place. I think he was after Natalie’s last story, whatever it was. Vern saw the car too; thought it was suss. He was the one took down that rego I sent you.’

  He groaned. ‘So you’ve recruited Vern into your squad of lunatics now?’

  I spent a moment channelling my serenity. Pushed the plate of sausage rolls closer to Dean. Nothing like good quality pastry to help relax the uptight cop. Especially one that’s on a nasty diet.

  ‘Vern’s sailing bloody close to the wind with that notebook of his.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Invading people’s privacy.’

  ‘Dean. Vigilance is the kind of outlook that’s generally welcomed by the cops.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I want you to be vigilant about, Mum. Staying away from this so-called Leo Stone. I need to confirm his story with Australia Police.’

  ‘Australia Police?’

  ‘We need to check out that yacht accident. Whether it really was an accident. And whether he’s actually who he says he is. I mean, how’d he get his passport renewed if he was recorded as dead? Tell me that.’

  ‘Dean, please. Don’t waste your time on Leo.’

  ‘It’s never a waste of time to look into a potential arms smuggler. Plenty of them come and go from that part of the world.’ He bit into a sausage roll.

  Oh, for God’s sake. How to get Dean focused? ‘Listen, Morris Temple’s got a bruise on his cheek. Could be from my star picket. I know I made contact with the intruder with that thing.’

  ‘Oh?’ He paused mid-bite.

  ‘Yes, I…just happened to pass Morris in the street, and I noticed he had this massive bruise.’ Probably best not to tell Dean all the ins and outs of my meeting at the Cultivator.

  ‘Right. Maybe I should go and talk to him.’

  Yes, yes, YES.

  ‘After lunch.’ He reached for another sausage roll.

  ‘By the way, Dean, you didn’t happen to find out what the story was that Natalie was working on before she died? Anything to do with the Ignition Group?’

  ‘You sure Gary’s not paying you, Mum? You seem very determined to follow up on this.’ He gave me one of those drilling looks—you have to wonder if he practises them in the bathroom mirror. ‘And, as you’re aware, operating as an unlicensed private investigator is illegal.’ He paused significantly. ‘I can always access your bank records, if I have reason to believe a law has been broken.’

  Thank God I’d put Gary’s money under the frozen peas.

  ‘Dean, relax. All I’m doing is helping out a grieving parent. Anyway, lovely to catch up with you, son. It’s been ages since we had a chat.’

  A pause while we chewed.

  ‘Did the Ignition Group have anything to do with those bushfires last summer?’

  He glared.

  ‘Just making conversation. No point coming all this way to see you if we’re just going to sit here in deathly silence. Here.’ I pushed an extra-large diversionary sausage roll his way.

  ‘Arsonists don’t usually work in groups. It’s normally one demented individual.’

  ‘Let’s say, just hypothetically, that Natalie was killed and it was made to look like an accident,’ I paused, waiting for Dean’s reaction.

  All clear: he was busy with his sausage roll. Best really if he ate all the evidence; Melissa might not be too happy if she discovered Dean’s diet had gone off-piste.

  ‘Well, maybe she’d found out something. Something someone didn’t want made public,’ I said.

  ‘Mum, listen to me. I get that you feel sorry for Gary. Of course you do. So do I. I’m not a person without empathy.’

  ‘Really?’ I don’t want to put you off him, but the fact that Dean was aware of the concept of empathy came as a bit of a surprise.

  ‘But I can’t run around after every little thing just because a bloke is feeling sad. I have to use police resources responsibly.’ He used some of those resources to stuff his mouth.

  ‘Maybe someone forced her car off the road. Ernie reckons it’d be possible.’

  ‘You and Ernie watch too many movies.’

  ‘Hardly. Not when I’ve got a shop to run and a whole lot of detec…personal issues to look into for people.’

  I started packing away the remaining sausage rolls.

  He put his hand on mine. ‘Mum, I’ve checked and rechecked Natalie’s file. There were no strange dents, scratches down the side of her car, nothing like that. Nothing apart from the damage clearly attributable to her crashing into the tree.’

  I took it as encouraging that he’d checked the file. But. ‘What if he didn’t leave any special marks? Maybe he overtook her, then braked suddenly and she swerved off the road. That’s possible, surely.’

  He sighed. ‘Look, anything is possible. A whole army of little green men could have beamed in from Mars and swarmed out in front of her, part of their Earth-invasion plan. But if we’re talking reality, statistical actual likelihoods, there was absolutely nothing suspicious about the death of Natalie Kellett. She was on a public road. She drove into a tree on Jensen Corner. While speeding. There was no evidence of other vehicles present. No witnesses. End of bloody story.’

  ‘Come on, Dean. There’s more to it than that. She was working on this big secret story. She’d bought bullets. Had pepper spray. Her bag was stolen from my house. And Morris Temple has been stalking me. Surely you’ve got enough imagination to see that this adds up to… something? And…’ But I couldn’t tell him about Jacinta. Not without mentioning the dropped phone.

  He snorted. ‘Yeah, right, as if imagination’s going to help. Evidence, hard cold evidence, is what the world of policing is built on.’

  He wiped away a speck of sausage meat from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘What you have to recognise is that there are plenty of strange little mysteries in everyone’s lives. And everyone has arguments. Every day. Quite a few of us would love to leave our jobs, our wives, our whole damn lives, in fact.’


  He stared out the window for a moment, then turned back to face me. ‘I suppose you’ll be standing up for Brad, as usual?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Come on, don’t pretend you don’t know about his latest.’

  Why is it that everyone knows everything about Brad before I do?

  ‘I’d say he’s really wrecked his future this time. Good one, Brad.’ He smirked.

  The blood rushed to my face. ‘You wipe that smirk right off your face, Dean Tuplin. Brad’s your little brother. You don’t damn-well smile when he’s in trouble.’

  The smirk morphed into a downward-mouthed sulk. ‘Well, you have to admit it’s not great news. Of his own making, naturally. All due to his beliefs. Ha.’

  Christ, what had Brad gone and done this time? Nothing criminal, I hoped. Clearly I’d be the last to know. I wasn’t admitting that to Dean, though.

  ‘Well, at least he believes in something. What do you believe in, Dean?’ I folded my arms and glared at him.

  A pause. ‘You need hope to believe in something.’ His voice had a weary tone. ‘All I’m after here is survival. That’s what I believe in: survival in a shitty world. Like mother, like son, wouldn’t you say?’

  I stared. Whatever happened to that optimistic, dark-haired eleven-year-old? The kid who loved duck shooting, wild dog trapping; who couldn’t get enough of camping and fishing by the Murray? I couldn’t remember the last time Dean went camping. Melissa’s not keen on proximity to ants.

  ‘Come on. You can do a whole lot better than just survive. You’ve got heaps to feel good about. There’s, ah, Melissa…’ I moved on swiftly. ‘And the kids. They adore you. And your job: well, that’s a big achievement. Everyone looks up to a cop.’ Almost everyone. Some of the time.

  ‘You have no idea, do you, of how much I hate my life? Spare me the positive-thinking bullshit.’ He stood up. ‘Thanks for the sausage rolls. I’ll leave you to see yourself out.’ He stalked out of the room.

  I lurched out to my car. Got in and slammed the door. I flung the esky onto the passenger seat. Then sagged onto the steering wheel and beat my head against it a few times.

  Kids—why would you have them? Would there ever be a day when I could stop worrying about Dean and Brad?

  For the first time in my life, I realised there might actually be an upside to dementia—if I forgot who the boys were, there’d be half a chance I could forget to agonise over them as well.

  19

  I dialled Brad’s number.

  ‘What do you want, Mum?’

  It brought tears to my eyes hearing the misery in poor little Brad’s voice. Not that he’s little anymore—he’s only a whisker shorter than Dean. Every time I see Brad—dark hair, green eyes, exact spit of his father—it’s another stab right through the heart from Piero.

  ‘Is this about me coming home tomorrow?’

  ‘You’re coming home? How nice.’

  ‘Don’t pretend no one’s told you.’

  ‘It’ll be terrific to see you.’ I paused. ‘Do you need money?’

  Brad does his best to fund his life at uni by working in a takeaway joint in Warrnambool. He hates it—well, Brad’s never been what you’d call a takeaway enthusiast. He’s more of a dhal and lentil burger kind of person, apart from his weakness for the smell of frying bacon.

  ‘No, but thanks, Mum.’ He added, ‘It’s not my fault, you know.’

  ‘Right. You haven’t broken any laws, have you?’

  He sighed. ‘Maybe I should just throw myself off Tower Hill.’

  ‘Don’t say things like that. What’s happened, son?’

  ‘I’ll tell you about it when I get home.’

  Well, that was improvement on the Tower Hill option.

  A thought. Some distraction might do Brad good. And the concept that he was needed. Everyone loves to feel needed.

  ‘Actually, I was wondering if you could help me with some…environmental questions.’

  ‘You hate the environment.’

  ‘How can anyone hate it? We live in it. And we all have to put up with it. Anyway, what I’m wondering is this—is Andy Fitzgerald up to something dodgy?’

  ‘In the environmental sense?’

  ‘In any sense.’

  ‘Hardly an environmental question. But yes, he has a lot of close associations in the fossil-fuel industry.’

  ‘As in fracking?’

  I’d had a mini-lecture on fracking from Brad just last week. He kindly spelled out the word for me, just in case I’d never heard of it. I’m pretty much the least informed person on the planet, in Brad’s opinion.

  ‘Not just that. Before life in politics, he was a director of the IOI.’

  ‘Sounds like something Old MacDonald might sing after a couple of drinks.’

  ‘If only it was that harmless. Come on, everyone knows what the IOI is.’

  ‘Err…’

  He sighed, like the way I used to do myself years ago when I was trying to get him potty trained.

  ‘The IOI is the Institute of Open Information. Calls itself a research organisation, but it’s really just a mouthpiece for the fossil-fuel industry. They’re very vocal in denying climate change, with a long history of promoting doubt about the science.’

  I braced myself for a state-of-the-planet briefing.

  ‘Their latest contribution to so-called “open information” is funding that ridiculous book by Eric Buckland.’

  Buckland. Where had I heard that name?

  ‘Anyway, why the interest in Fitzgerald?’ he said.

  Surely I could tell Brad; he’s not one to go around blabbing. In fact, Brad’d be a lot easier to deal with if he did blab, just a little bit. About important details, the kind of details his mother could do with knowing, so she can help him sort out his happiness.

  ‘Just, ah, looking into some of the details around Natalie’s Kellett’s death.’

  ‘But her crash was just an accident, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Well, her father says it wasn’t. And someone broke into my place and stole Natalie’s bag. Her laptop.’

  ‘Jesus. Are you OK, Mum?’

  ‘Yeah, apart from being whacked over the head. Anyway, it all gives you a certain impression, doesn’t it?’

  ‘What does Dean say?’

  ‘What you’d expect. That he looked into the crash, it was a straightforward accident, stay out of it, no licence anyway. Blah blah.’

  ‘Typical. Bastard.’

  ‘Dean’s just…under a lot of pressure.’ It’s a reflex, standing up for my kids.

  Brad snorted. ‘He’s in the wrong job, Mum.’

  Brad, the expert on all life matters.

  ‘So what’s the right job for him, then?’

  ‘He needs to follow his passion.’

  Did Dean have a passion? I’d never heard him mention one.

  ‘Look, I have to go. I’ve got a…meeting. See you tomorrow. And Mum? Be careful.’ Brad hung up.

  20

  As I put my phone away, I remembered, regrettably, the promise I’d made to Madison.

  I suppose you could say that my biggest problem in life is the way I allow myself to take on too many of the troubles that strictly speaking belong to other people. The theory is easy, isn’t it? People can ask, and I can just say no. Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen. For various reasons, and no doubt it’ll turn out it’s all to do with my childhood—my mother’s fault, probably—the pattern is that I say yes.

  At least this wasn’t a promise to help with a crimey kind of problem. It merely involved an urgent shopping expedition. The Target intimate apparel department.

  ‘Cass, they’re on special,’ Madison had laid the brochure out on my counter. ‘No way I’ll get a chance to go to Muddy Soak before it ends.’

  ‘Just order them online, Madison.’

  ‘Oh come on, you know how long it takes for anything to arrive here in the mail. It won’t take you a second, I promise.’ Her eyes were all big and begging. �
�Please? And you could get some for yourself. Take a look—I really think the leopard skin’s the way to go, don’t you agree? And the bulk pack is excellent value.’

  I stared out my windscreen, pondering how to get out of this. Maybe I could tell Madison Target had run out of her size. But she’d know quick-smart I was lying. And Madison’s my most loyal customer.

  I looked at my watch. Two-thirty. Well, if I made it quick, I’d still have time to call in on Ernie, drop off those Anzac biscuits. He might let me look up a few Natalie-related matters on his iPad.

  Target is a place you could wander around in for days, unrecognised. Probably not a bad spot to do a drug deal. There’s no way you can shop there in a hurry, not with all the aisles full of stuff you think you might want but then you get it home and realise you’ll never use it.

  After only a few minutes in there, I could no longer will myself to hurry. Maybe they pump some kind of gas into the air conditioning to slow down the customers. I cruised past the iPads, the kitchenware, the books—amazing how cheap the books were. For the price of a few coffees you could have a whole decent book. Hours more entertainment than a few cuppas and a lot less caffeine.

  Finally, I found the women’s underwear and the real search began. I know there’s not a lot to a G-string, but who’d have thought they’d be so hard to find?

  It crossed my mind that this was possibly another of Madison’s misguided attempts to encourage me to be more adventurous vis à vis my own undergarments. There are a few people in Rusty Bore who seem to think I’m in desperate need of sex.

  ‘Your underwear is key, Cass. It’s all about how you feel, especially for the older woman.’ Madison had hurried on before I had a chance to protest about the O word. ‘The mature woman needs a little extra to…get motivated, apparently. I read about it in Cleo. Anyway, I’m not old myself, obviously, but personally, I find a G-string makes a difference.’ She bent down to stroke Timmy.

  I occasionally let Timmy into my shop after closing time. I shouldn’t, really. But the big plus of Tim is that he doesn’t try to savage anyone. He’s a ferret who’s just very comfortable with who he is, in Madison’s expert opinion.