Dead Men Don't Order Flake

by Sue Williams

  Although it would probably help if the evidence was presented to Dean by someone other than me. Or better still, presented to his new boss. How long till she arrived? Next week? Half of Rusty Bore could be terminally book-bashed by then.

  I’d almost finished on the chips, although not on the pondering, when Rae swung by. She tramped through to my freezers, boxes of frozen flake, whiting and dim sims stacked in her sinewy arms. Tall and wide, Rae’s a woman that could shovel out a mallee gum without assistance.

  She’s one of the few women I went to school with who stayed in this area. Although her area’s a little larger than mine: Rae delivers frozen food from down south to all the Mallee towns.

  I side-stepped out of her way.

  ‘Heard you’re looking into that girl’s accident.’ She thumped the boxes into my freezer.

  Good to see the Vern hotline operating at peak efficiency. Still, no harm in telling Rae. I’ve known her long enough to know she can keep a secret. ‘Look, just between you and me, her father, Gary…’

  ‘Reckons she was murdered. Yeah, Vern agrees with him.’ Rae shoved the freezer door closed.

  ‘Natalie was working on something, a story she didn’t get the chance to finish. Maybe some dirt on Andy Fitzgerald.’

  ‘Politician. Bound to be up to something dodgy.’

  ‘Anything specific?’

  She shrugged her broad black-T-shirt–clad shoulders. ‘Don’t know the bloke personally—not the circles I move in.’ She paused. ‘But Jan Marwood—you know, one of the Sheep Dip Marwoods—she cleans Fitzgerald’s house. Anyway, Jan reckons he’s an arsehole.’

  ‘She indicate what kind?’

  ‘The violent kind.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yeah, killed his wife’s dog. Wrung its neck, Jan said. There she was, Jan I mean, mopping the floor on a Friday afternoon as usual, that little black ball of fluff yapping away at her like he always did. Fitzgerald just marched past Jan, grabbed up the dog by its throat and, well…’ Rae glanced at me. ‘Probably don’t need to go into all the details.’

  I swallowed.

  ‘So. Look at it this way, Cass. How would Fitzgerald have responded if Natalie said she was going to publish all that?’

  ‘A big jump from killing a dog to killing a woman, though.’

  Rae wiped her ruddy face with the back of her hand. ‘The hunger for control is an unstoppable force in some blokes. You only have to look at what happened to Belinda Johnson. And that bastard only did four years. Fitzgerald wouldn’t even do that, of course. He’d be able to buy himself the get-out-of-jail card.’

  ‘He’s related to, ah, Glenda Fitzgerald, isn’t he?’ I kept my voice casual.

  ‘Yeah, he’s her youngest. So, you know, mitigating circumstances. Born into a long line of arseholes.’

  ‘His wife do anything about the dog?’

  ‘She wasn’t there at the time. She’s mostly in Melbourne. High-powered lawyer. He just told her it got run over and he’d buried it in the yard. Jan said nothing. She didn’t want to lose her job.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Yeah, you might not want to discuss all this with Gary Kellett. He’s in a pretty fragile state.’

  ‘Does Fitzgerald have much to do with his sister… Irene?’

  ‘Dunno. He’s away in Melbourne a lot these days. Strange how they both ended up in politics.’

  ‘You reckon Irene’s happy?’ I had my reasons for asking.

  ‘First female mayor in Muddy Soak, not a bad achievement, surely. Although it’s hard to know if someone’s actually happy. And people you know well can still surprise you. You’d know all about that, of course.’

  ‘Yeah.’ It’s sad but true that everyone knew about Piero long before I did.

  ‘I’d imagine Irene’s had her fair share of stress. She’s got Buckley’s of winning the election next week, since that ridiculous pokies decision.’

  That’s what we have councils for, of course. To vote in favour of things no one wants or needs. What Rae was on about was the redevelopment of Hustle’s Heritage Hotel. It’s a beautiful old building, busily husking down, like most of Hustle. And Rusty Bore, I have to admit. A cashed-up couple from Adelaide recently bought the hotel, planning to save it. With pokies.

  A sudden thought. ‘Did the Cultivator run a story on all that?’

  ‘Doubt it. It’s a Fitzgerald publication, after all.’ She pulled out her delivery book for me to sign.

  ‘Once you’ve got pokies, you never get rid of them, Cass. Worse than cancer. After all, these days some cancers can be cured.’

  Rae tugged out my copy of the delivery note and handed it over.

  ‘Although Bamfield’s totally against them, so maybe that’ll help,’ she said.

  ‘He’s a busy bloke: festivals, openings, fixing bushfire-burnt fences.’ And still finding time to hone his deathless comfort-specialist humour.

  ‘Yeah, but that whole magnanimous thing is just his public face. In private, he’s ruthless. He ground that gravel business in Wyche into the dirt; sold his own stuff at a loss for months to do it.’ Rae looked at her watch. ‘Anyway, gotta go. Five Star Fish Shop’s waiting on an emergency calamari order.’

  She tucked her delivery book into a pocket and strode out, the bell jangling as she closed the door.

  24

  A quiet afternoon in the shop. I dredged out the mystery notebook and had another fruitless flick through its hieroglyph-covered pages. Tapped my fingers on my spotless counter.

  There are times when, frankly, your best course of action is to rustle up a batch of vanilla slices. They’re Brad’s favourite, and it’s hard to feel stressed when the kitchen’s full of the smell of baking pastry.

  I made the custard, spread it out over the pastry, and popped the slice into my fridge to set. Leo used to be quite keen on vanilla slices too, way back. I offered to show him how to make them once: it’s a simple recipe, and I’d been looking forward to the lesson, a comprehensive one-on-one evening tutorial. But Ernie soon put paid to that idea—he gave me the Stone men: can’t trust any of ’em briefing.

  I headed over to my fridge; got out the vanilla-slice tray for a brief inspection. The custard looked firm. I dusted the top with icing sugar then carefully cut them into the standard size snot blocks. Took one on a plate over to my table, holding it carefully so it wouldn’t slop onto the notebook. I bit into it, just quality-checking for Brad, of course.

  My phone rang. I grabbed it, my custard-sticky fingers smearing the handpiece.

  ‘Rusty Bore Takeaway.’ I wiped a pastry crumb from my mouth.

  ‘Cass. It’s Leo.’

  I’d have known his voice on the first syllable. My heart quickened. An early effect of pastry-related cholesterol, probably.

  ‘Are you…OK?’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’ Apart from feeling somewhat breathless.

  ‘Good. I was wondering something.’

  ‘Uh huh?’

  ‘You, ah, free for dinner tomorrow night?’

  ‘I’ll just check the diary.’ I rustled through Natalie Kellett’s notebook, holding the phone close to the pages. ‘Looks like I can squeeze you in.’

  ‘How about the Broken Nail? In Hustle. Seven o’clock suit?’

  There was something odd in his voice; I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

  ‘Sounds good.’ I said.

  ‘Great.’ He hung up.

  The slow afternoon got slower. Two four-wheel drives whizzed by. A blue-tongue lizard stretched itself out in the sun on my front step. I wiped down my grill, trying to steer my mind away from naked-Leo images. I stared out the shop window for a moment, but the Leo line of thinking persisted.

  I grabbed the mystery notebook, slipped on a jacket and put up the Back in 10 sign. Headed out along Best Street, towards Vern’s. As I walked up the three wooden steps to his shop, Boofa came bounding out to greet me. I gave him a pat, as usual.

  Vern was lying in his hammock on the front verand
ah, notebook tucked under his arm. He was dressed in a white singlet and blue shorts a size too small on him.

  ‘Cass. Where you been? Away all day yesterday. Bloody outrageous. I had no idea what to tell him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Leo Stone. He come round looking for you.’

  ‘Did he?’ Slightly odd Leo hadn’t mentioned that.

  ‘Reminds me,’ Vern scratched his nose. ‘Meant to tell you something about that Natalie Kellett.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Came into my shop.’

  ‘When was that?’

  The sound of paper rustling as Vern flicked through his notebook. ‘Couple of days before her accident.’

  ‘Any idea what she was doing here?’

  ‘Meeting someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘She didn’t say. And you know me, I’m not one to nose around in people’s business.’

  Uh huh. There are people, somewhat harsh people, who argue Vern’s entire existence is devoted to nosing around in people’s business.

  ‘Good thing you’re looking into this, Cass. I always thought there was a big untold story behind that crash. Didn’t like to say so in front of Dean, of course. He can be a touch…well…he doesn’t welcome unsolicited theories.’ Vern pressed his lips together.

  ‘What kind of untold story?’

  ‘Well, woman alone late at night. That in itself has to be a story. How many women you know drive alone late at night?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Vern, plenty. Women need to go places at all kinds of times. You want us all locked up?’

  ‘Calm down. All I’m saying is not every female’s got your independent streak. Some of ’em are quite happy for a little supportive merger with a fella, from time to time.’ He tugged at the crotch of his shorts. ‘Still, anyone could see that girl was up to something. No doubt about it, she was furtive. I can give you two possibilities: just working hypotheses, of course.’ He paused, obviously waiting for me to ask him to expound.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, theory A: she’d hooked up with someone. Married bloke, most probably. Unbelievable the way young women throw themselves at married men, when there are decent, unattached, asset-rich fellas right here in Rusty Bore.’

  Asset-rich was stretching it a bit. Maybe he was referring to the phone booth outside the shop. Not many of those left these days.

  ‘What married bloke?’

  ‘Coulda been anyone. Could even have been another woman involved, one of those ménage a thingos. Enhanced by drugs, quite possibly. All arranged on the internet. And then the three of them got up to something filthy in a motel.’

  ‘Vern…’ It can be difficult keeping up with Vern when he’s on a roll.

  ‘Although, they coulda just got on with it inside her car. Roomy car, wasn’t it? And she looked an acrobatic sort of girl. Anyway, you know what women are like, when they get going, properly.’

  He stared off into the distance, like he was remembering something. Possibly the same something I was doing my best to forget.

  ‘Anyway, is that the time?’ I clicked my tongue. ‘Must get back to the shop…’

  ‘Hang on, haven’t given you theory B yet.’

  ‘If it involves Natalie’s sex life, I’m not in the mood.’

  He laughed, a sound like a tractor firing up. ‘Women, that’s all they ever think about. Nah, theory B is Natalie had information.’ He paused significantly. ‘Information someone didn’t want made public.’

  ‘And what? They killed her for it?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘But if she had this info, surely her editor, Millson, he’d have had it too.’

  ‘Dean ask him that?’

  ‘Err, Dean can’t really talk about his job, Vern. Police work’s highly confidential. But Dean would have asked. Course he would. He did everything by the book.’

  A small silence while I fretted over that. By the look on his face, Vern was fretting too.

  ‘Not an easy job for Millson. Not easy for any of them at the Cultivator,’ said Vern, looking thoughtful.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I just mean it’s a stressful job, being a journo in a country town.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yep. She’d of personally known all her readers. Natalie woulda had to report the local news like it’s all rosy. After all, a journo’s an advocate for the town. So, for instance, you don’t mention the drought, well, not more than you have to. You focus on something cheerful, like, I dunno, how young six-year-old Ashley’s doing just terrifically since his lung transplant. And you don’t point out how people are moving away, instead you come up a nice, positive story on how Belle’s the most popular baby name this year.’

  I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.

  ‘So what I’m saying is that Millson couldn’t run no stories that made anyone in the town look bad.’ He paused. ‘Especially if that anyone happened to be anyone prominent.’

  Vern seemed to know a lot about all this. I wondered for a tick if he’d ever been a journo himself. Vern’s a blow-in; he only arrived here twenty years ago. It’s never been too clear exactly what he did before he turned up in Rusty Bore; he never talks of it. Or how he lost the arm.

  A sudden thought: did he lose it in a printing press? A traumatic accident, involving someone who’d chased him in there, enraged by a less-than-rosy article Vern had turned out. I made a mental note to ask him. When we’d got over our delicate situation, give or take a million years.

  ‘You any good on shorthand, Vern?’ I held out the notebook I’d found.

  He stood up, grabbed it from me, leaned it on his hammock and started skimming through the pages.

  ‘Natalie’s, is it?’ he said.

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Looks like Pitman, but not quite. Maybe she put her own spin on it.’ He held the notebook closer. ‘Mind you, I haven’t seen shorthand in years.’

  ‘Any idea what it says?’

  He ran his finger along the page, then flipped onto the next page. ‘Well, this looks like…Will something. Galang? And here…wind turbines.’ He held it up, but they were still just squiggles to me.

  He flicked ahead a couple of pages.

  ‘And here, the something group. Ignition Group. Gas Solutions. This one’s easy: Fitzgerald.’

  Vern spent a few minutes flipping through the rest of the book. ‘Nup. That’s it.’ He handed me the notebook.

  ‘Any of that mean anything to you?’ I said.

  ‘Well, maybe she was investigating Gas Solutions.’

  ‘What’s that? A new kind of stove lighter?’

  ‘You’re having me on. You’d know all about Gas Solutions. Brad woulda briefed you.’

  ‘Err.’

  ‘The fracking licences. State government granted that big heap of petroleum exploration licences in the Murray Basin, only they’re calling ’em preliminary observational licences, due to the moratorium. Well, we all know that won’t last forever.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Interesting thing is that every single one of those licences was granted to this one mob: Gas Solutions. And the announcement for those licences was timed for Boxing Day. That’s gotta be slightly dodgy. I mean, who reads the paper then?’

  Only Vern, quite possibly.

  ‘Well, now Gas Solutions are planning these “consultations” all over the joint. How fracking’s gunna create a multitude of jobs. Course, what will actually happen is they’ll make squillions, while we have to live with poisoned groundwater and messed-up farmland.’ He paused. ‘Surprised you’re not up with all this. Doesn’t Brad keep you informed?’

  OK, so maybe I don’t always listen as carefully as I might to Brad’s enviro-briefings. The thing is, his timing isn’t always ideal. I was dealing with a shop-freezer-defrosting-across-the-floor crisis during his most recent seminar.

  ‘Course, Fitzgerald was the one who granted those licences.’

  ‘Oh.’
>
  Vern scratched his arm. ‘No way Natalie would have been able to get a bad news story about Fitzgerald into the Cultivator, though, not even a whiff of it. Not with Glenda in charge.’

  A small shudder at her name. ‘Well, thanks for the info,’ I said. ‘Good work.’

  He smoothed down the singlet over his chest.

  I turned away and walked down his steps. As I set off along the footpath, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and jumped.

  ‘Cass,’ said Vern. He looked deep into my eyes. ‘If it turns out you need to sell up, you know, due to your overwhelming detecting workload, or any other personal factors, well…you’ll give me first option on your place, won’t you?’

  ‘Me? I’m not going anywhere.’ If Vern thought he could force me out of Rusty Bore, he had another think coming.

  I pulled my jacket tight around me and hurried off.

  25

  I arrived home to find a car parked out the back. A yellow-green Datsun 180B with a faded Ten things you can do to save the planet sticker on the back window. A couple of fresh-looking new stickers too: Parks for sharks and Some of my best friends are sharks. I pulled back my shoulders and straightened up, preparing myself for the mother-son pep talk.

  There are days when you’re better placed for a round of motivational discourse, and this wasn’t one of them. I was tired and distracted after the last few days: I guess being broken into, bashed and stalked can do that to a person. And when you need to advise your son on important life matters, well, it’s best to give out the impression that your own life is in reasonable control. Brad’s always been very talented at wrestling people off the moral high ground.

  I opened my back door.

  ‘Hi Mum. I was going to cook some stir-fry for our tea. Looks like you’re out of organic tempeh, though.’ He shook his head, his dark fringe flopping over his forehead.

  ‘I’m sorry my fridge contents aren’t up to scratch, Bradley. You may be surprised to hear that I’ve had a few other things to think about.’ I paused. ‘And I’m not ready for anything on food miles, mass extinctions or the folly of the fossil-fuel economy until I’ve had a cuppa. And a couple of Panadol.’