Dead Men Don't Order Flake

by Sue Williams

  Madison came out of the Cultivator office, clutching Timmy under one arm. She looked up and down the street, then bustled towards me.

  ‘Morris isn’t at work today. He phoned in sick,’ she hissed. ‘I got his address though: 34 Garmin Street.’

  39

  One side of Garmin Street was lined with jacaranda trees; the other with tall, sweeping yellow-flowered gums. I drove past a grey-haired man sitting on a bench, a little radio parked on the seat beside him. Singing away to himself, smiling. I don’t know why some people think they have the right to look so relaxed. Still, maybe if I sat around on more park benches, I’d have a chance to cultivate that kind of mood as well.

  I drove slowly, peering at the houses, looking for number thirty-four. Federation spires and verandahs in abundance. A multitude of roofs bristling with solar panels.

  ‘Cass, it’s here,’ said Madison.

  I pulled over. We sat there in the car for a moment. Thirty-four was out of character with the rest of Garmin Street’s tree-lined grace. A dilapidated stripy blind over the front window. Long grass out the front. A Land Rover that looked like it hadn’t been driven in decades husking down in the driveway. It was difficult to believe anyone actually lived here. Anyone who wasn’t in desperate financial circumstances, that is. Did Morris have money problems? He had his job at the Cultivator though, didn’t he?

  ‘You sure you got the right number, Madison?’

  She nodded.

  I got out of the car, the others following. Some Ernie-grunting noises as he heaved himself out.

  I walked up the two cracked concrete steps to the front door. Knocked firmly, hoping it wouldn’t cause the door to fall in.

  The door opened. A woman stood behind it, looking out at us. Blinking, as if she hadn’t seen daylight in some time. She had long grey hair flowing over her shoulders. A purple paint-spattered smock; maybe she was an artist. Living in this joint, it would probably help if you were happy to spend prolonged periods living inside your head.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is Morris in?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  Madison elbowed past me. ‘We’re friends of his. Got a message for him from Jacinta.’

  ‘He’s not home.’ The woman’s mouth pulled down. Maybe the art wasn’t going well. Some kind of painting block, perhaps.

  ‘Actually, Jacinta’s quite worried about him,’ said Madison. ‘Would you mind if we came in?’

  ‘No point. He isn’t here.’ She didn’t budge.

  ‘Oh? Where is he?’ I said.

  ‘Are you from the paper?’

  ‘No, no. We’re friends: we know him through…’ I paused, searching for inspiration.

  ‘The Northern Mallee Ferret Club,’ said Madison.

  ‘Really?’ The woman looked puzzled. ‘I didn’t realise Morris was into…’

  ‘Oh, Morris has a wide range of interests,’ I waved a hand. ‘A young man constantly in search of new experiences. Still, you’d know all that. Living together, I mean.’

  ‘We’re not living together,’ she snapped.

  ‘Of course. I didn’t mean…’

  ‘I’m sick of people presuming I’m some kind of cougar. Or his bloody mother.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, people can be terribly annoying.’

  ‘Morris went out this morning. I haven’t seen him since. Anyway, I need to get back to work.’ The door started to close.

  I stuck my foot in the gap.

  ‘Can you move your foot out of my doorway?’

  ‘In a moment.’ I smiled sweetly. ‘You don’t happen to know where Morris was last night, do you? It’s just that he was supposed to meet us…’

  ‘At the ferret expo,’ added Madison.

  No response; the woman just shoved harder at the door. I spent a moment worrying whether my toes might drop off, then she sagged against the door. ‘Look, I don’t monitor his every movement.’

  ‘Course not. But you’d probably notice if he went out?’ I said.

  ‘He was here all night, glued to his laptop. Too busy with that to load the dishwasher, of course.’

  There was a dishwasher in this dump?

  ‘Now move your foot from my doorway right now, unless you want me to phone the police.’

  Fat lot of good that would do her.

  Ernie leaned over my shoulder. ‘You listen to me, young lady.’ His voice was a snarl. ‘There are a lot of people worried about Morris. Worried he might do something stupid…like hurt himself.’

  ‘Ha. As if.’ But her face was pale.

  ‘So you might want to flaming well help us out here.’

  A pause. ‘He left about an hour ago.’

  ‘He say where he was going?’ I said.

  ‘No.’

  I looked over at the falling-down carport, devoid of cars. ‘He took his car?’

  ‘Well, obviously.’

  A thought. ‘You don’t, ah, happen to know what he was doing on the night of the twenty-eighth of January, do you?’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘I know it’s a while ago it’s just that…’

  Madison spoke up. ‘Tamie, Mr…Smith’s prize-winning ferret, went missing that night—and, well, it’s just horrible the things people insinuate, isn’t it? But there are some who’ve suggested Morris might have…’

  ‘For God’s sake. I’m sure I would have noticed if he’d brought an animal home. Morris does a lot of stupid things but even he’d draw the line at stealing ferrets.’

  ‘What time did he come home that night?’ I said.

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘It was the flaming Australia Day weekend,’ said Ernie. ‘That help you place it?’ One of his metal-melt glares.

  ‘Um. We had a party here that night. Morris sulked as usual. Anyway,’ she waved a hand, ‘he won’t be hard to find—he’s probably floating around this ridiculous festival. Or having a coffee somewhere with one of his stupid friends. Maybe with that, what’s his name—Will—Morris was ranting on about him last night.’

  ‘Will Galang?’

  ‘Maybe. Look, I’ve got a deadline, so bugger off, will you. And when you find Morris, tell him to pay his bloody share of Foxtel.’

  She kicked my foot away and slammed the door. We stood beside my car a moment, a forlorn type of Famous-Five huddle. It didn’t require a mastermind to see that Morris wasn’t out having a coffee with a dead bloke.

  ‘That was a total waste of time.’ Brad, the uber-optimist.

  As if to spite him, the sun came out from behind a cloud. You could almost feel all those roof-top solar panels in Garmin Street perk up. And not a single headache anywhere in sight. Not among goats, anyway.

  It also seemed unlikely Morris was hanging around the festival out where Glenda might see him, given that he’d chucked a sickie.

  ‘Anyone got any bright ideas on where to look next?’ I said.

  Silence. A small dog in a leopard-skin coat trotted by.

  ‘I’d better get Timmy to the vet, Cass. Our appointment’s at one-fifteen.’

  We grabbed a quick sandwich and then I dropped Madison, Brad and Timmy off at the vet; a bright yellow and blue building in Muddy Soak’s main drag.

  Ernie and I sat in the car a moment, digesting. Just assuming we’d been told the truth and Morris was at home, glued to his laptop all last night…who exactly left Preston’s head on my doorstep?

  40

  I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, pondering the next stroke in our master plan. My phone rang. Ernie grabbed it before I had a chance.

  ‘This is Cassandra Tuplin’s phone, Ernie Jefferson of Rusty Bore speaking,’ he said. You could never fault Ernie’s phone manners. ‘G’day Vern. What can I do for you?’ A pause. ‘Hang on, you better talk to Cass.’ He handed me the phone.

  ‘Vern? You OK?’

  ‘Getting there. Arm’s back in action, at least. Where are you?’

  I explained the latest happenings, or non-happenings, i
n Muddy Soak.

  ‘Got some info you might be interested in.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yep, spent a bit of time going through the old notebook this morning. Claire brought in me till receipts and associated paperwork. Needed bloody something to do while I hang around here in hospital and I was overdue an internal audit. Anyway, noticed something.’ He paused.

  ‘Uh huh?’ I tried to be patient. Vern doesn’t like it when you try to rush him.

  ‘There’s this one person stands out, based on his spending patterns. Noticeable consumption of liquorice bullets.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Showbag. I shoulda seen it ages ago.’

  A pause while I considered that.

  ‘So I’d say there’s a more than average chance young Natalie was up to something not quite right with Showbag. She probably bought all those bullets to tempt him.’

  ‘You mean like an affair?’

  ‘Or a ménage a thingo, like I said.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem likely she’d be interested in Showbag, Vern. Natalie was quite an attractive young woman. Anyway, what’s he say?’ No doubt Vern would already have called him.

  ‘Denies it, of course. But he’s lying, I’m sure of it. And.’ Vern paused significantly. ‘Claire found half a bottle of Fire Drum in his kitchen cupboard.’

  ‘Ah.’ I didn’t ask what Claire was doing poking around in Showbag’s cupboard.

  ‘Gotta go. Visitor.’ He hung up.

  I marched into the Cultivator office, Ernie following on his stick. I didn’t bother admiring Our Land in Flood this time, just headed straight for the door with the sign that said Editor. Flung it open.

  ‘What’s going on, Glenda? And why the hell did you leave a dog head on my doorstep?’

  Ernie shuffled in behind me.

  ‘How dare you! Get out of my office, both of you. Now!’ Glenda held her hand over her phone, shielding whoever it was she’d been talking to from our exchange.

  ‘Or was it your lovely son Andy who killed Preston?’ I said, as loudly as possible.

  ‘Look, I’m terribly sorry, I’ll have to call you back.’ Glenda spoke into the phone. She hung up.

  ‘He’s got a nasty history with dogs, hasn’t he?’

  Glenda stood up, her well-bred nostrils quivering. ‘You have no business barging into my office, making wild accusations. Get out now, before I phone the police.’

  Ha.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. We’re leaving all right. I need to get on the blower to Crikey: I’m sure they’ll be quite interested in some information about our state minister for innovation, major projects and energy, and how he conducts himself around various people’s dogs.’

  ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘I might be persuaded to reconsider. If you tell me what happened to Natalie.’

  Glenda sagged into her chair. ‘I know nothing about a dog.’

  ‘What’s the number for Crikey, Ernie?’

  ‘No, please! Look, there’s very little I can tell you.’

  I reached for my phone.

  ‘Honestly!’ Glenda held up her palms. ‘What I know is that Natalie told Shane Millson she had a huge story.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘She was lying, obviously. Although why she would do that is hard to fathom. She had always been quite scrupulous, up to that point. Anyway, she said she had evidence that…what is the man’s real name?’

  ‘What man?’ I said.

  ‘Showbag.’

  ‘Samuel Jenkins. Although no one ever calls him that. What about him?’

  ‘Natalie said she had evidence that he was lying.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘This solar sickness business. Goats with headaches et cetera.’

  ‘What evidence?’

  ‘A pathetic tissue of lies, obviously. Very sensibly, Millson refused to run the story.’ Glenda sniffed.

  ‘Did this tissue of lies involve Andy?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘You’d better hand me that number for Crikey, Ernie.’

  Glenda spoke quickly. ‘She said this…Showbag had been paid to complain. And that his payment involved a speedboat.’

  ‘Paid by flaming whom?’ Ernie leaned in on her desk. Always been a stickler for grammar, Ernie.

  Glenda winced. Possibly Ernie’s menacing look. Or his breath.

  ‘She didn’t specify.’

  ‘Oh, really? I think she did specify, Glenda.’ I paused. ‘She specified your son, didn’t she?’

  ‘That is a ridiculous notion.’

  ‘Ernie, we’d better get the number for the Guardian as well. And the Age, if they’re still in business. They’ll all be very interested.’

  ‘Yes, yes, all right, she tried to suggest Andy had paid the man. Well, that was clearly untrue. What would Andy possibly have to gain from such a stupid action?’

  ‘Perhaps a favour from his friend.’

  ‘What friend?’

  ‘Rory Quayle. CEO of Gas Solutions. It’d suit him very nicely if the world thought solar energy was suss.’

  ‘What exactly are you insinuating?’ Glenda’s neck was red. ‘That my son is…somehow corrupt? How dare you.’

  ‘If you’re worried about what I’m suggesting, just wait until the national news gets hold of this. They’ll suggest a whole lot more than I ever could.’

  ‘I’ve told you all I know.’ Was that a look of pleading in Glenda’s hard flinty eyes?

  ‘Tell me what happened to Natalie that night.’

  ‘Well, Millson told her there was absolutely no way he was publishing such a ridiculous tale. She resigned and flounced out.’

  ‘And was killed. Run off the road.’

  ‘I have no idea what she did after she left this office. She was a very confused young woman. Perhaps she suicided.’

  ‘Of course she did. She killed herself because she had a story that would make her career, and, more importantly, reveal the slime-bag behaviour of your son. I don’t think so, Glenda.’

  I marched out. Ernie staggered along behind me.

  41

  Andy Fitzgerald’s electoral office had a huge Aboriginal dot painting on the wall. A vase of flowers on the white counter. The smell of carpet cleaner.

  I leaned on the counter. ‘We’re here to see Andy Fitzgerald.’

  ‘He’s in Melbourne,’ said the woman seated behind the desk. Spiky grey hair; red-rimmed glasses.

  ‘Can you check that?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t need to check. Andy’s been in Melbourne the last couple of days. He was at the Innovation Awards ceremony last night. Didn’t you see him on the news?’

  I’d had other priorities to deal with last night. The shop, avoiding Dean, avoiding that philandering arms smuggler and his nonstop phone calls. Double-bagging a dead dog head. Yeah, a few things.

  ‘He’ll be back later this afternoon, for the Turning Leaf Spectacular.’

  Ernie and I draggled back out to my car. Sat there a moment. A Winnebago steamed past.

  ‘Bit difficult for the bloke to stick a dead dog head on my doorstep when he was in Melbourne,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe he snuck back overnight.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘No point letting it get you down, Cass. We’ll find out. We need to find this Morris fella. Interrogate the untrustable little bastard.’

  Yes; where was Morris?

  ‘Untrustable bastards: they’re everywhere.’ Ernie clicked his false teeth. ‘Like those flaming Bamfields. Bunch of crooks.’

  Oh, shit, Ernie’s watch. Time to change the subject.

  ‘What was that number Brad said was on Morris Temple’s phone? The Rusty Bore one?’

  ‘2426.’ Ernie’s recall can be a little terrifying.

  I took out my phone, dialled the number.

  ‘Yes?’ The quavery voice of Showbag. So Morris phoned Showbag the day Natalie died?

  ‘Showbag, what’s this about you and Natalie Kellett?’
/>   ‘Who?’

  ‘Natalie Kellett, the journo from Muddy Soak. Apparently she was working on a story about you.’

  ‘What story?’

  ‘Don’t buggerise around, Showbag. I’m not in the mood. It was about your solar sickness crap.’

  ‘You got no right saying it’s crap. It’s perfectly legit. Government’s got an inquiry into it. Can’t be more legit than that.’

  Ha.

  ‘So Natalie came and saw you?’

  ‘Might of.’

  ‘What’d you two talk about?’

  ‘This and that.’

  ‘About your goats?’

  ‘Yeah. Missy had another turn that day, actually.’

  ‘So why did Morris Temple call you the day Natalie died?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Did you talk to him?’

  ‘Don’t remember.’

  ‘What about Will Galang—did he come and see you as well?’

  ‘Who?’ Showbag’s voice was a little more quavery than usual.

  An idea. ‘I have to tell you something, Showbag. It’s not very nice, I’m sorry to say.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve been talking to a few people. Andy Fitzgerald, for instance. And the word is that you told Natalie a huge pack of lies.’

  ‘The bastard! That’s totally off. And after everything I did.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  He mumbled something.

  ‘Speak up. I can’t hear you.’

  ‘That’s the thanks you get for giving a bloke your bloody time. I’m a busy person, you know.’

  ‘Where’d you get the speedboat from, Showbag?’

  ‘Nowhere.’ A frightened tone had crept in to his voice.

  ‘What does that mean? Didn’t you say a long-lost uncle left you some money?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. That’s right. Uncle, err, Wayne.’

  ‘Where’s he live, your Uncle Wayne?’

  ‘Nowhere. He’s dead. That’s how he left me the money.’

  ‘Yeah, but before he died. Where’d he live then?’

  ‘Oh, he sort of roamed around.’

  ‘Really? How’d he make his money?’

  ‘Filthy rich, the bastard.’