Blood Feud (Little Town)

by JD Nixon

  “I prefer to keep my clothes on.”

  “And isn’t that the greatest of shames? A divine beauty such as yours deserves to be immortalised on canvas.” His eyes moved to Kevin and he smiled. “And why is this stippled young man so ablaze? Could it be the thought of his lovely colleague unclothed and draped over a chaise lounge, perhaps only the merest wisp of gauzy material preserving the modesty of her lush body from our prying eyes?”

  My cheeks pinkened at his florid words, but poor Kevin looked as though he was about to burst into flames, he was so red. I felt as if I was losing control of the situation.

  “Enough of this please, Mr Whittaker –”

  “Len!” he chuckled with exasperation.

  “Can we return to the matter at hand, please?”

  He pulled a sad face. “Oh dear, Officer Tess. This sounds like an official visit, not a friendly howdy-do. Don’t tell me. The voluptuous Elenora has been complaining about me again?”

  “Who?”

  “Elenora. Our community’s curvaceous councillor, the luscious lady who conceals a seethingly passionate nature beneath her prim exterior.”

  “Mrs Villiers?” I asked in disbelief. I wasn’t sure I even knew her first name before. She seemed the type to be born without one.

  “Oh yes. The seductive temptress from next door. I told her the other day that she had the finest legs I’d ever seen that weren’t attached to a frisky filly.”

  “Are we talking about the same Mrs Villiers?” Maybe she had a more likeable, more attractive sister who coincidentally also happened to marry a Mr Villiers and became a councillor?

  He laughed heartily. “Ah, I’m speaking with the authority of my artist’s eye now. I see women in terms of curves and lines and planes and shadows. You yourself, Officer Tess, have the most beautiful lines, of which you take no apparent advantage. Intriguing. I would like to paint you from behind, with your head and body twisted towards the viewer to show off your delicate profile and the soft, round curve of your –”

  “Mr Whittaker!” I interrupted stridently. I’d had enough of this rubbish and there was no fire extinguisher nearby to put Kevin out if he spontaneously combusted as he was threatening to do at any moment. “We’re in a hurry, so can we please deal with this matter? We’ve had a complaint that there has been some nude ‘cavorting’ in your backyard which was visible to other people.”

  “Ah, the ever reliable Elenora. Her moral outrage is her cloak against her innermost desires, you know. Very common with people who take umbrage in this age at any lapse from Victorian-era propriety. The world has marched on, but they haven’t, trying desperately to cling to an era where everyone spoke like they were in a Jane Austen book and the legs of tables were clothed in case someone was offended . . . or became too inflamed by the sight of those curves.” His eyes rested on Kevin. “People like Elenora are often afraid of their own sexuality – of expressing it, of needing it, of relishing it. Are you afraid of your sexuality, young man? Or do you –”

  “Mr Whittaker!” I tried again to wrest back control, worried Kevin was going to lose consciousness. “Was anyone nude in your backyard today? Just answer the question, please.”

  He regarded me with surprise. “Yes. Of course they were.”

  A sudden headache pressing on my forehead, I rummaged around for my notebook again. “Okay, give me the details.”

  “I was trying out some poses with Phoebe and Philippe. The tree in the backyard is perfect for the piece I have in mind. Do you want to check with them?” Without waiting for my response, he turned and shouted into the house. “Darlings, could you come here? Quickly, please.”

  The patter of light feet heralded their arrival. And no matter how many times I’d encountered them, I still found myself almost shocked by their appearance. Kevin gasped audibly, his eyes bugging. A young couple, no more than nineteen-years-old, they must have been related as they looked so similar – perhaps twins. They both had light blond hair down to their shoulder blades, silvery-grey eyes, pale skin, and wide, full mouths. They were tall and slender with a disconcerting habit of wrapping themselves around each other. They seemed almost ethereal, as if wisps of smoke had twisted together into human form, an image reinforced by the fact that they only ever dressed in white clothes.

  No one knew for sure what relationship the pair shared with Len Whittaker – whether they were his offspring, niece and nephew, disciples, or lovers. But the trio made everyone uncomfortable and there was a general unspoken consensus in town that we’d all be glad when they moved on again. They’d only taken the house on a short-term lease that would end soon.

  “My darlings,” he said to them, sliding an arm around each of their shoulders. They nuzzled up to his neck, almost purring at him. “Tell the lovely officer what we were doing in the backyard today.”

  “We’re wood nymphs,” said Phoebe, her voice as light as air.

  “Oh,” I replied, at a loss as to what else to say to that statement. I wrote wood nymphs in my notebook, followed by an exclamation mark.

  “At one with the trees,” added Philippe.

  I wrote down trees. “And being a wood nymph would entail you being completely naked?”

  “Obviously,” smiled Len. “Whoever heard of a wood nymph wearing clothes? It’s absurd.” They all laughed.

  “And why were you being wood nymphs?”

  “We’re not being wood nymphs, we are wood nymphs,” insisted Phoebe. That would explain a lot, I thought sardonically.

  “It’s for my new series of paintings based on elemental sprites. The wood nymphs represent the earth.”

  “Of course they do,” I said neutrally, adding the words sprites and earth to my notes.

  “That’s why we’re here. So many trees around this town.”

  “There certainly are,” I confirmed, underlining trees. “Mr Whittaker –”

  “Len!”

  “I don’t want to be accused of being a philistine or of suppressing the creation of great art in any way, but –”

  “But there’s always a ‘but’,” he smiled easily.

  “But please don’t allow any more . . . um . . . naked wood nymphs to cavort in your yard where your neighbours might see.” I could not believe I’d just said that. “May I suggest you do your posing somewhere more private? Maybe out in the bushland somewhere. But not here in town.”

  His sigh was overdramatic. “Oh, Officer Tess, how disappointing. You seemed to be a champion of the arts, a lover of creativity and imagination. A supporter of sublime visual stimulation.”

  “Of course I am,” I lied, “but we must consider the sensibilities of others. And by others, I mean Mrs Villiers.”

  “Would you like me to go over to Elenora and appease her by showing her the lovely sketches I made of my darling wood nymphs today?”

  “Good God, no!” I spluttered hastily.

  “But that might help her understand my concept. This is the final painting in the quartet. We have already completed water, air, and fire, with only earth left to finish. They are beautiful, beautiful paintings. My finest series yet. I’m going to make a packet out of them.”

  That materialistic comment jarred with me. He noticed.

  His mouth twisted with bitterness. “Sadly, I can no longer afford to paint merely for the sake of the muse. I need money to fund my retirement, just like any dull plodding office worker. Ah, the irony.” He chuckled softly, his eyes softening. “But it’s been a long time since I could attract a patron. These days, the world is about making money, not supporting artistic endeavours. My last patron died when I was in my thirties. He was a generous man, but very demanding, if you know what I mean.”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what he meant. And only too aware that we’d strayed off topic yet again, I drew him back with a crisp, “I wouldn’t recommend approaching Mrs Villiers at the moment, Mr Whittaker.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Is that an official recommendation?”

  “You can ta
ke it as one.” I slipped my notebook and pen back into my pocket.

  He turned to his nymphs. “Looks as though we’ll be braving the wild from now on, my darlings. No more frolicking in the backyard for my little nymphs.”

  Their faces sank with disappointment. Phoebe looked as though she might even cry.

  I backed away. “Thank you, Mr Whittaker. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  And watched by the trio, Kevin and I made our swift way back to the patrol car. Safely inside, we looked at each other.

  “Weird,” he said simply.

  I nodded. “The weirdest, and that’s really saying something in this town.”

  I drove off, only to have the Sarge phone me again. “Gwen Singh has just reported a petty theft at her house. Do you want to investigate? She said it wasn’t urgent.”

  I sighed. “I’ll leave it until after we visit Miss G, Sarge. Otherwise we’ll never get there.”

  “Okay. How did it go with Mrs Villiers?”

  “She only wants to deal with you from now on.”

  “It went that well, did it?”

  “Also, she wants an update on the mysterious case of the Great Little Town Blanket Theft.”

  His turn to sigh. “Oh, for God’s sake! How are we supposed to find a missing blanket?”

  “No idea, but that’s your problem now,” I laughed. “See you later!”

  And still smiling to myself, I drove back to Miss G’s house, bumping up her pothole rutted driveway. I parked, pulled out my phone and called directory to obtain Bessie’s number.

  It rang for so long I thought it wouldn’t be answered, only to have it picked up at the last second by Bessie’s daughter, breathless from rushing. I chatted for a few inconsequential minutes before I asked about Miss G. Bessie’s daughter assured me that she wasn’t visiting and in fact, her next visit had been planned for two weeks from now. But my call instantly worried her, and I had to spend another couple of minutes soothing her down, even though I was also filled with anxiety.

  Miss G was ninety-three and living alone with no close relatives. She might have fallen over in the bath or something. I hesitated over asking Kevin to accompany me inside. But I reasoned to myself that he wanted to be a cop and a cop had to be prepared to face any eventuality. It wasn’t as if he was a kid on work experience. If he graduated from the academy, in a few months he’d be out on the streets as a probationary police officer, upholding law and order in the real world. It wasn’t possible – or desirable – to shield someone who’d decided on our line of work from the ugly side of life.

  We traipsed up the sagging steps and I knocked loudly on the front door, calling out her name. No response. I tried again. More nothing.

  I went around the back of the house, Kevin following me. I rapped on the window of the back door, but there was no sound except for the crickets chirping in the overgrown grass. I tried the door and it opened. I didn’t want to make too much of that, although because of the overbearing presence of the Bycraft family, folks didn’t usually leave things unlocked in Little Town. And Miss G was a cautious woman by nature.

  “Miss G? It’s Tess Fuller. Are you here?” I stepped inside the kitchen, Kevin snapping at my heels. “Miss G? It’s Officer Tess. I’ve just come to check on you. Let me know if you’re here.”

  The house was so silent I could hear the ticking of the large grandfather clock from the lounge room down the hall. The kitchen was uncharacteristically messy, a mostly empty bottle of milk left sitting on a bench, surrounded by carelessly discarded plastic wrapping from a packet of ham and a loaf of bread. A couple of unrinsed empty tins of baked beans had been thrown into the sink. Cupboard doors hung open.

  My nose twitched at the faint unpleasant smell permeating the room. It might just be the food scraps, I told myself, noting that the milk in the bottle had curdled and a stray slice of ham curled with dryness on the floor.

  “Kevin, stay here,” I ordered, pulling out my Glock and heading for the hallway. Miss G’s house was similar to my own, though much grander, with a large eat-in kitchen at the back and living areas and bedrooms at the front.

  I held my gun up in front of me as I made my way down the hall.

  “Police!” I yelled in warning, scoping first the bathroom, the formal dining room and the library. Everything seemed to be in order, and my shoulders relaxed a little.

  I moved further down the hall, the smell growing stronger with each step. “Police!”

  The three bedrooms I checked were all neat and undisturbed, the lounge room in the same state. One room left.

  Miss G’s bedroom was dark, illuminated only by daylight creeping around the edges of the drawn blind.

  “Oh no,” I said sadly under my breath when my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom and I spotted the small hump in the bed, under the covers. There was no movement at all, no rising and falling of her chest.

  I guess it was inevitable. She was no longer young and death claimed us all eventually.

  “Senior Constable?” Kevin’s anxious voice floated down the hallway.

  “It’s okay, Kevin,” I yelled back, putting away my gun. “Stay where you are. I won’t be long.”

  I flicked on the light, approaching the bed. I planned on doing a quick pulse check and then calling it in to the Sarge. I’d let him liaise with Dr Fenn, the medical officer at the prison who’d be able to issue a death certificate. Kevin and I could wait here for him and keep any stickybeaks away. Someone was sure to notice the patrol car parked out the front of the house sooner or later and start wondering why. The town was that sort of place.

  But as soon as the light came on, all those plans flew from my mind. I stepped up next to the bed and leaned over her, a hand covering my mouth. Dried, crusted blood drenched her neck, chest, nightdress and sheets. An ugly, jagged gash ran from one side of her neck to the other, exposing tendons and bone. I stood in shock for a full minute, looking down at the tiny, elderly woman who’d always been friendly to me in a town where so many weren’t.

  So much blood.

  “Senior Constable? Is everything –” asked a voice from the door, followed by a strangled cry. “Oh, God! Oh . . .”

  “Get back to the kitchen, Kevin,” I snapped at him harshly. He stood in the doorway, pale and shaking, his mouth open in horror. “Move it!”

  He spun and stumbled down the hallway, back towards the kitchen.

  My own hands trembling, I took a deep breath and reached for my phone. I needed the Sarge.

  Chapter 6

  The rest of the day passed in a horrible blur. To Kevin’s credit, he didn’t hurl or faint, but sat at the kitchen table, quiet, huge-eyed and still a little shaky. The Sarge raced over in his own car, calmly taking charge, and for once I was relieved to let him. While he contacted the Super, Dr Fenn and Miss G’s lawyer, I set about securing the crime scene, trying to stay impassionate and not think about what I’d discovered.

  On his arrival, the Sarge and I held a low-voiced conversation about whether or not we should put up some crime scene tape, knowing the shocking news of Miss G’s death would then spread through town in about five seconds flat. But on reflection, we agreed that in any case, the sight of the patrol car and the Sarge’s cute little BMW parked out the front for hours on end would tip everyone off, not to mention the eventual arrival of Dr Fenn and the detectives and forensics van from Big Town. Such a convergence of official vehicles at the house of one of the town’s quieter residents would surely have tongues wagging. And we both acknowledged our first duty was to secure the crime scene, not to prevent gossip. Besides, we decided that helping me with the tape might keep Kevin occupied for a few minutes, briefly taking his mind off the carnage he’d witnessed inside that bedroom.

  So in an attempt to distract him from his first experience with violent death, I coaxed him outside to assist me. After searching every inch of the patrol car, I finally found some crime scene tape wedged into the furthermost corner of the boot. I brushed the dust off it and
enlisted Kevin’s help in stringing up the checked blue and white tape across the driveway, from rotting gatepost to rotting gatepost. It was the only entry point, Miss G’s property otherwise fully enclosed, though the fencing was badly dilapidated in places.

  The hurried arrival of Dr Fenn kept the Sarge busy, and it was up to me to crowd control while we waited for forensics. It didn’t take long before the first sightseers turned up, attracted by the unusual spectacle of the crime tape. Of course they were Bycrafts, the idlest people in town and the only ones able to instantly drop everything they were doing (namely boozing, smoking dope, shoplifting, and procreating) if something more interesting arose.

  “Oh, you have to be kidding me,” I groaned, incredulous.

  Unbelievably, our first ghouls were Chad, Mikey, and Sean Bycraft, boldly cruising past in the red Commodore we’d left locked in the station’s carpark.

  “Hey!” said Kevin, stunned out of his funk by their sheer audacity. “That’s . . . The car! . . . And it’s . . . them!”

  “You get that car back to the police station right now, Chad Bycraft!” I hollered, in no mood to be messed around with by them again today.

  “Fuck you, piglet!” chorused the teen cousins out of the windows, grinning as they slowed to a crawl in front of us. Chad stopped the car to rev the engine a couple of times in provocation.

  “What’s going on? Did something happen to the old bag?” yelled out Sean.

  “I swear to God I’m going to shoot them one day,” I hissed between gritted teeth. “Kevin, take a very good look at the car’s occupants this time. It would be great if you could identify them with enough confidence to satisfy a court.”

  “What’s happened?” asked Mikey. “Is she dead? Did someone do her in?”

  Their insensitivity at such a time inflamed me. The town had been viciously robbed of the last of one of its pioneering families – a family that had actually contributed to the town, unlike the Bycrafts. Blood boiling, I ducked under the tape and strode towards the Commodore. I had no idea what I planned to do – maybe I was going to pull them out of the car and kick their butts, or maybe I was going to crack their heads together. I found my hand reaching for my OC spray. Maybe I meant something more serious.