Dead Men Don't Order Flake

by Sue Williams

  Still, it explained why Natalie hadn’t told Gary what was worrying her. It can’t have been easy knowing that a bloke her father held in high esteem was actually a crook. Well, my advice to Gary, if I was presumptuous enough to air it, would be to consider choosing his friends more wisely. Flippant-sounding words, I know, but they’re true: it’s a lesson I’ve learned myself, the hard way.

  I spent a worrying couple of days wondering if Shane Millson, the Cultivator’s editor, was alive. It was quite a relief when Patto told me they’d managed to get hold of him. Millson really was in Europe, after all—in Spain, not under Bamfield’s pinot grigio vines, as I’d feared. In Patto’s view, Millson will be a vital witness at the trial.

  There are a number of people in Rusty Bore of the opinion that Showbag got off far too lightly—it’s looking like he won’t be arrested, since payment for an opinion isn’t actually a crime. Cash for Complaint: Totally Unethical, was the headline the Hustle Post ran with. Showbag insists he didn’t see the harm.

  We managed to give poor old Preston, or at least his decomposing head, a decent burial. In the pouring rain, we buried him in Gary’s extensive backyard, under a nice old spreading oak.

  As for Jensen Corner, it’s still there—it’ll outlive us all.

  48

  A week after the near-death wardrobe affair my gashed wrist was almost healed. Ernie’s arm, broken in three places, was taking a bit longer to come good. Still, he seemed to be over the worst of it—I’d called in to check on him every day, but he’d been a bit too busy for our Midday Movie, given all his visitors. Every one of Rusty Bore’s 147 residents had been in to write their own hilarious joke on his cast. Well, everyone except Showbag.

  ‘Flaming media star, Cass,’ Ernie told me. ‘Bit sick of the news crews, to be honest.’

  The Hustle Post got right into it, of course—Brave Mallee Pair Our National Heroes! trumpeted their headline. They tried but failed to take out exclusive rights on a photo of Ernie’s plastered arm. The only downside as far as Ernie was concerned was the delay in the search for his watch.

  As for me, well, I still wasn’t sleeping well. The whole experience had only reinforced that awful dream: the one where I’m trapped in a small, dark, dusty place and the walls are closing in. The nightmare was now enhanced—Ernie was in it, talking in a squeaky voice, before we both choked to death on helium. It doesn’t matter how many times Ernie, the real-life Ernie, tells me that death by inert gas is painless, my subconscious seems unable to process that detail.

  I stood back and looked at my specials board. To me, the absence of flake stood out like, well, rather like one of those hacked-off shark fins Brad’s always on about. Still, I promised him I’d do my best to trial it. Brad’s theory is we’ll just distract any displeased customers with a free sample of sweet-potato wedges with Claire’s ever-popular sour cream and lime dip.

  I checked my watch. Ten-thirty. Better get the kettle on. Dean’d be here any minute. After recent events, Dean decided to up the parental surveillance, unfortunately. He’d called by every day—each time telling me he just happened to be passing, which we both know is a lie. No one passes through Rusty Bore: it’s not on the way to anywhere.

  Right on cue, my shop bell rang and Dean marched in, his boots clomping across the floor. He looked up at my specials board. ‘You do too much to humour Brad.’ It’s moments like this when I really wonder why Dean’s not done a little better in the police force—he’s definitely got an eye for detail.

  I slipped off my floral apron. Led Dean down the hallway into the house and my kitchen, and put on the kettle. Brought over a plate of jam-smothered scones.

  ‘High time Brad learned to stand on his own two feet, Mum. And you really have to learn to let go.’ Dean took a bite of scone.

  Dean might have had a point, but what he doesn’t seem to realise is that it’s not easy to turn your back on people you care about. And it’s no big deal for me to do a few little things to keep Brad propped up, especially at the moment. His hearing date’s been set for October. I don’t know how well I’m going to manage the next six months of biting nails, wondering if Brad’s headed for jail.

  ‘How’s your wrist, Mum?’

  ‘Getting there.’

  ‘You know, you really should have told me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you were bleeding, of course. When you phoned. I would have come straight away.’ His eyes went all shiny. ‘I feel terrible, Mum.’

  Poor old Dean. Maybe the less said about the whole thing the better. I’m not sure how Dean felt about being bypassed by Leo. And I didn’t want him getting started up again on the idea of police interviews. Glenda had dropped the complaint about my unauthorised entry into the Cultivator office, presumably to keep attention off her son. Andy Fitzgerald had kept a very low profile since Bamfield’s arrest and I hadn’t told Patto about Fitzgerald’s evening activities at the Cultivator, given that I’d broken in there myself. I’d say Fitzgerald had been in there trying to find out if Natalie’s story was about those fracking licences. Gas Solutions still have sole ownership of all rights to frack up the joint.

  ‘Not to worry.’ I patted Dean’s hand. ‘We just need to work on, err, our communication, I guess.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you admit it, Mum. And I hope you’ve learned from all this. When you’ve got a problem, you need to tell me. Properly.’

  Jesus. ‘You know, communication is a two-way street, son. So, here’s an idea: maybe we both have some things to work on.’

  He took another bite of jam-smothered scone. ‘Possibly.’ Well, that was a sign of progress.

  ‘Anyway, how’s the new boss?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, good news there. My transfer to Mildura’s come through.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? I put in a request for a transfer. And Melissa’s been offered a job at the Mildura council.’

  A pause. ‘I believe you may have forgotten to mention that. But that’s…nice, isn’t it? You’ll be able to do some fishing.’

  I auto-offered him another scone. I wasn’t sure about how I felt about Dean moving. Mildura’s a fair drive. I’d miss him. And the kids. And Melissa, of course.

  ‘Yeah. Reckon I might enjoy that. Might be a bit harder to keep an eye on you from there, though.’ He laughed, as if he thought he could convince me he was joking. One or two miles of silver lining in Dean’s move suddenly nudged their way through.

  ‘At least you can stop worrying about Leo Stone,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Yeah, apparently he didn’t fake his death. Or reappearance. I don’t know why you were on about that, actually.’

  ‘I believe that was your idea, Dean, not mine.’

  ‘Well, anyway, he’s perfectly legit. I checked it all out with the South African police. Way back, when Leo heard he’d been reported missing, he contacted them. This was about three months after the yacht accident—news doesn’t travel fast in the Congo, well, not in those days it didn’t. Anyway, Leo was never officially recorded as dead.’

  Dean took a sip of tea.

  ‘And there’s no evidence he’s smuggling arms or even diamonds. Dunno why everyone kept going on about that, to be honest.’

  I was lost for words for a moment, too dazzled by Dean’s ability to outsource blame. I suddenly realised he’s probably wasted in the cops. Dean could have had a brilliant career in senior management. Or politics.

  ‘Leo worked for Médecins Sans Frontières. Mostly dealing with gunshot wounds. Hardly the kind of person who’d be into smuggling arms.’

  So that was why Leo had told me he knew about guns? Jesus, he could have made himself a tiny bit clearer.

  ‘But why didn’t he contact anyone back here to let us know he wasn’t dead? He didn’t even call Showbag.’ I said.

  ‘He did.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He phoned Showbag, way back. Yeah, Showbag knew Leo was alive. He knew all a
long.’

  After Dean left I put up the Back in 10 sign. Marched along Best Street. Knocked on Showbag’s rattly security door. It had been a long time since I’d called in on Showbag. We don’t tend to seek each other out. I peered through the mesh into his darkened hallway. The smell of onions frying.

  ‘Coming,’ a voice wheezed.

  Showbag shuffled up the hallway. He stood at the door; didn’t open it. He was wearing a brown dressing-gown and slippers. Heavy bags under his dark eyes.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me Leo was alive, Showbag?’

  ‘Not my fault.’

  ‘I’m not blaming you. I just want to know. I mean, you knew how I felt about him. That whole memorial thing…’

  He looked down at his feet. Wiped his nose with his sleeve. Mumbled something.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Embarrassing.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sold it.’

  ‘Sold what?’

  ‘His stuff. I’d sold his bloody Stratocaster.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me because of a guitar?’

  ‘I was gunna tell you.’ A pleading look. ‘A million times I tried to say it. But the longer I left it, the more… impossible it was.’

  Later that afternoon, I got on with battering some fish. Whiting, since flake was now off the menu. It was a little tricky, but I managed to keep my bad wrist out of the Rusty Bore Takeaway special-recipe beer batter. I was just dipping the last piece when the shop doorbell rang. I wiped my hands and arms on a towel; popped my head around the doorway.

  Leo Stone. In jeans, as usual. And a T-shirt, blue this time, stretched tight across those shoulders. His hair was damp and ruffled, like he’d just stepped out of the shower.

  I straightened up my dress; slipped off my apron and hung it on the hook.

  Leo stamped his boots on my mat, carefully wiping off the red-brown mud.

  ‘Cass.’ He gave me a look with more than a hint of smoulder.

  ‘So how many bloody wives, Leo?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘How many wives do you have in the Congo?’

  He grinned. Turned over the Open sign in my shop door. Walked towards me.

  ‘How many you reckon?’ He put his hands on my shoulders; looked into my eyes.

  ‘Four?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Three.’

  ‘You’re getting closer.’ He stroked my cheek with his finger.

  ‘Two.’ My voice thickened.

  ‘Nuh uh.’ His warm lips brushed my neck, my ear.

  My breathing quickened. To be honest, I kind-of lost interest in the wife countdown. We kissed.

  I never close the shop, not unless it’s Monday. But the Rusty Bore Takeaway was closed all afternoon, as it turned out. All evening. Quite a bit of the next day too. Later, Dean told me he’d tried to ring, on multiple occasions. Three regulars phoned as well. I ignored the phone, the door, the world.

  There are occasions when multitasking just isn’t feasible.

  This was one of them.

  Acknowledgments

  Rusty Bore, its inhabitants, dogs and ferrets may not be real, but there are a number of actual people who helped with the creation of this book:

  Thanks to Debbie Marks and Ciara Martin, who read an early version of the manuscript.

  For generously providing ferret tips and tales, I point my finger firmly at the Garland family and Elise Vandertuin. Thank you, guys.

  To my family and friends, who know the full list of Questions Not to Ask Authors, thank you for your support and encouragement.

  A huge thanks to Text for believing in Rusty Bore—especially Mandy Brett, Alice Lewinsky, Anne Beilby and Kirsty Wilson (who’s worryingly familiar with the area between Teddywaddy West and Chinkapook).

  It also seems appropriate to mention the Australian government, who, no matter who they are this week, remain an unwavering source of inspiration.

  I can’t not mention Small But Big, aka Nicki Reed, best writing partner ever. A big thanks for letting me hang around with you.

  Last, but not least: Ross, who puts up with it all, even managing to provide hilarious early-morning plot ideas before any caffeine has passed his lips. Heartfelt thanks. Sorry to break it to you, but I think it could still be argued that this is all your fault.