Nick dashed through the kitchen, grabbing the fire extinguisher his wife had insisted they had to have years before, and ran into the garden. The Molotov cocktail had landed and erupted into flame inside Baxter’s kennel, which was completely ablaze. Nick sprayed it with foam.
‘Oh darling, what on earth happened?’ gasped La Contessa, clutching his elbow.
‘Molotov cocktail,’ said Nick. ‘Clearly lobbed over the garden fence and by complete luck it landed in the kennel, which helped contain the blaze.’
‘But what if poor Baxter had been in there?’ she asked in horror.
At that moment, right on cue, a sleepy Baxter pottered into the garden, sniffed at the still smoking kennel and lifted his leg to assist in putting out any remaining embers.
‘Why on earth would the dog spend time in a hut in the garden when he is given pride of place in the middle of our bed every night?’ said Nick.
‘Who would do such a thing?’ said La Contessa, still pale from the shock.
‘Now you are thinking like a detective,’ said Nick. ‘Who indeed? It seems my visit to Natalia has caused a little consternation to the residents opposite.’
‘Do you think it was her?’ asked La Contessa, looking at the smouldering embers of Baxter’s kennel.
‘No, I don’t think that’s the work of a high-class mistress,’ said Nick. ‘She is a lover not a fighter. But someone in Turner Towers must have found out about my visit and decided to send us a very strong warning.’
‘But who else could it be? The only other person we know in there with a motive is Catherine and she does not look the type to start throwing petrol bombs in the middle of the night.’
‘We need to look at the mail you stole and see who else is there,’ said Nick sitting down to the sound of a loud crack from the cushion beneath him.
‘Oh yes, that’s where I hid that last Easter egg you couldn’t find on Sunday,’ said La Contessa as Nick pulled the crumpled tin foil and crumbled chocolate from beneath him.
‘What we need is a strong young man,’ said Nick, soldiering on. ‘That kind of dirty work requires a thug’s touch.’
‘What about him?’ asked La Contessa, pulling out an envelope addressed to a ‘Wayne Durain’ and tearing it open.
Nick sighed. ‘I had thought we would get the names and then return the mail,’ he said.
‘Oh shush, silly – and miss all these clues? Look, this is a receipt for a whole lot of gym equipment. That makes him strong enough to throw a Molotov cocktail,’ said La Contessa.
‘Or a body,’ said Nick.
*
‘And now we are going to streeeetch those muscles . . .’
Nick wandered into the garden to be met with the extraordinary sight of La Contessa wearing her old 1980s high-legged purple leotard and Jane Fonda wool leg warmers, bent over and stretching in front of her laptop. Nick whistled appreciatively.
‘Hello . . . darling . . . I’m . . . doing . . . an . . . exercise . . . class . . . with . . . Wayne . . . from . . . the . . . apartments . . . opposite,’ she panted.
Nick looked at a buff young man with a blond crewcut who was on the screen doing exactly the same stretch as La Contessa but with considerably more ease.
‘Well now, there is a likely lad,’ said Nick.
‘Sshhh, he can hear you. It’s a live class,’ said La Contessa urgently as Wayne Durain’s voice came over the speaker. ‘Great work, guys,’ he said. ‘Same time tomorrow.’
The screen went black as he logged out.
‘Phew, the things I do for detective work,’ said La Contessa. ‘I got on to him in advance and had a chat with him before everyone else logged in.’
‘Good work,’ said Nick, eyeing the outdoor fridge. All this physical exertion was making him thirsty. ‘And did he say anything?’
La Contessa had a gleam in her eye that Nick recognised all too well – she had found something.
‘When he told me where he lived, I asked if he knew Rose Turner. He said they had just started dating and he was heartbroken.’
‘Did you believe him?’ asked Nick.
‘If he is heartbroken he is doing a pretty good job of hiding it,’ said La Contessa. ‘I think it might be your turn to get physical.’
Nick knew that could only mean one thing: trouble. A short time later he was proven right.
‘Mariabella, I really don’t think this is a good idea,’ Nick said, echoing the exact words he had uttered before his wife dispatched him to meet Natalia Kowalski.
‘Nonsense,’ said La Contessa in an ominous echo of the very word she had said before a Molotov cocktail was lobbed into their garden. ‘And besides, you look positively dashing.’
‘Hmmm, do you really think so?’ asked Nick. He was wearing a motley collection of his old sports gear, a Roosters jersey, Swans socks and Surf Life Saving shorts. ‘I feel more dressed for the Mardi Gras than for a one-on-one gym session with dodgy Wayne Durain.’
‘Nick darling, you will be fine – and perhaps a workout might make some of that gear a little less . . . snug.’
An hour later Baxter yelped in alarm as a sweating and extremely red-faced Nick staggered into the yard. He collapsed breathlessly onto the outdoor sofa and gestured at the fridge.
‘Darling, are you OK? What can I get you?’ asked a flustered La Contessa. ‘Water? Iced tea? Lemonade?’ Nick was becoming redder. ‘Martini?’ she asked.
He sighed in relief.
Some time later he was finally able to respond to his wife’s frantic questions. ‘I think we should call our friend “Brain” Durain because he is certainly not the sharpest chisel in the box,’ he said. ‘The interesting thing is that he was Charles Turner’s personal trainer before he was invited to live in the apartment block and started dating Turner’s daughter.’
‘He certainly landed on his feet,’ said La Contessa.
‘Unlike his girlfriend,’ said Nick.
*
‘Gosh, that Baxter really is a little rascal,’ said a breathless La Contessa as she and the dog hurtled into the garden in such a flurry that Nick spilled half his martini onto the big HiberNation crossword.
‘Bad boy, Baxter,’ admonished Nick. ‘What has she made you . . . I mean what have you done now?’
Baxter failed to look even remotely remorseful as he took a loud slurp of water and plonked himself on his blanket in the sun.
‘Well, he broke off his lead and dashed into the car park of the apartment block opposite,’ said La Contessa.
‘Really? And how did our super intelligent beagle beat the undoubtedly sophisticated security measures of Turner Towers?’
‘We just happened to be in the bushes, where he dragged me, when a car came out and then we, I mean he, dashed in. I had to follow him, of course.’
‘Of course. It’s amazing how that dog drags you into so many scrapes.’
‘I know right? Anyway, once we were in there, Baxter insisted on looking in every single one of the parking spots and guess what we found?’
Nick was sitting up and paying attention now. ‘Go on.’
‘In the parking spot of apartment number two, the one with that great big Rolls Royce —’
‘Which has mail addressed to Arthur Minns,’ interrupted Nick.
‘— tucked away in front of the car was a box of glass bottles, a torn T-shirt and a jerry can of petrol,’ said La Contessa. ‘Isn’t that what you said you needed to make . . . ?’
‘Molotov cocktails,’ said Nick. ‘Clever boy, Baxter. I think I had better draw on the police department’s extensive resources to find out a bit more.’
*
‘That’s very interesting,’ said Nick, slipping his hip flask into his pocket and getting up from the park bench where he and Cleaver sat when they ‘walked’ their dogs.
‘I’m not sure how it ties in with Rose Turner’s murder,’ Cleaver said.
Three minutes later, Nick and Baxter stepped through the garden gate just as La Contessa was conduct
ing her final evening surveillance of the apartments opposite.
‘Welcome home, boys,’ she said, stepping out from the bush where the telescope was hidden and sniffing Nick’s breath. ‘It’s funny how you never seem out of breath or hot when you come back from those walks with Cleaver.’
‘Natural fitness,’ said Nick smoothly. ‘Baxter and I have trained into peak physical condition.’
‘Oh really? And what else did you discover on your long exercise routine?’
‘Well Cleaver knew quite a lot about our Rolls Royce–driving friend, Minns.’
‘Did it tie in with the ingredients for Molotov cocktails Baxter found in his garage?’
‘Minns was Charles Turner’s driver for forty years and now drives for his widow, Catherine,’ said Nick. ‘They met when a car Minns was driving from a bank robbery in Chatswood crashed into Turner’s car.’
‘That’s a funny way to meet your future employer,’ said La Contessa.
‘But a good way for an entrepreneur to meet a crook,’ said Nick. ‘While he was on bail, Minns was arrested for arson for torching one of Turner’s buildings. Turner made a fortune on the insurance and, when he got out of jail, Minns was given a job for life.’
*
Nick was still pondering this mysterious relationship the following night as he took Baxter for his evening constitutional. ‘There’s something we’re missing,’ he said to the beagle as they turned the corner for home.
Nick and Baxter stepped through the garden gate to see two hooded men dressed in black leaning over La Contessa on the garden sofa. Some kind of mask was covering her face.
Before the men could react, Nick snatched up the porcelain chicken La Contessa’s mother had sent from Italy and dashed it against the head of the skinnier of the two assailants while a growling Baxter fixed himself to the calf of the burlier of the two men. Nick kicked the man’s backside and both men fled through the open gate.
‘Oh, my darling, what have they done to you?’ said Nick, kneeling quickly over La Contessa. Her face was covered with a plastic mask that pulsed with LED red lights. Nick gently prised the contraption free and found a drowsy La Contessa blinking up at him.
‘What happened?’ she said sleepily.
‘Have they hurt you? asked Nick anxiously.
‘Oh this?’ said La Contessa. ‘It’s my personal light-therapy anti-ageing face mask. It’s to firm skin and boost collagen levels. I must have fallen asleep when I put it on.’
Nick let out a relieved sigh. ‘So you put this thing on yourself?’
‘Of course, darling. It takes an army of people and products to have natural beauty like this. Now we are in coronavirus lockdown I can’t get to half of them so I am having to improvise at home,’ said La Contessa. ‘What happened to Mama’s chicken?’
‘There were two men here, darling. Didn’t you see them? I hit one with the chicken and Baxter bit the other one and chased them off.’
‘Oh really, Nick, is that the best you can do? I know you have never liked that chicken. You can sweep it up before you come to bed.’
The following morning, La Contessa still doubted Nick’s version of events.
‘Darling, I can’t believe you are still trying to convince me that there were two masked men here last night,’ said La Contessa, towelling herself down after her morning video workout with Wayne.
‘My disbelieving Dolomite duchess, it is all true,’ protested Nick. ‘I smacked one with your mother’s awf— adorable porcelain chicken and Baxter bit the other.’
‘I think you must have had one martini too many and are feeling guilty for breaking Mama’s priceless objet d’art.’
Nick attempted to smother a startled cough and his eye caught the laptop screen, frozen on a full-body shot of Wayne farewelling his fitness class.
‘Not only were there two men here, my doubting Dimaro diva, I can tell you who they are and why they were here.’
This caught La Contessa’s attention.
‘Obviously,’ Nick continued smoothly, ‘they came because Baxter led a certain person into the parking garage opposite in full view of the CCTV cameras.’
‘They have video surveillance?’ gasped La Contessa. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘If I had known you were about to break in, I would have done what any self-respecting husband would have done,’ said Nick, ‘and disabled the cameras.’
‘So they came to find out what I had discovered?’
‘Exactly. I saw Minns pull out in the Rolls Royce with a bandaged head this morning,’ said Nick. ‘And looking at “Brain” Durain on the screen, I see he has a bandage on his calf where Baxter bit him. Clearly those two are the muscle but I suspect someone else is giving the orders.’
CHAPTER 4
Feeling the Heat
Beep, beep, beep.
The wail of the smoke alarm disturbed Nick’s pre-dinner martini and was rapidly followed by the appearance of La Contessa into the garden carrying a smoking baking tin. She tipped the smouldering contents into Baxter’s food bowl.
Baxter, who had once attempted to eat a possum squashed on the road, sauntered over to investigate, turned up his nose in disgust and returned to his blanket.
‘Those were HiberNation’s raspberry and hazelnut brownies,’ wailed La Contessa, flinging herself onto the sofa. ‘Darling, I’m a failure. A terrible cook.’
‘Nonsense, my Florentine fireball, you just need to stick to what you are good at,’ said Nick as La Contessa perked up a little. ‘Why you are the princess of pasta, the temptress of tortellini, the goddess of gnocchi.’
‘The G on gnocchi is silent,’ said La Contessa, apparently now fully recovered from her setback.
‘Apologies, Ms Pedantic,’ said Nick.
‘That’s Mrs Pedantic,’ quipped La Contessa. ‘Anyway, I was thinking about how we need to drop off food supplies to the elderly during the coronavirus crisis. I thought my lasagne might be just the ticket for an elderly woman stuck in an apartment.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Nick, catching on. ‘A pensioner not unlike Alice Turner, billionaire Charles Turner’s spinster sister, who appears to never leave apartment 10 in the block opposite.’
‘Yes. She has always been the conscience of the Turner empire. I hate to think of her living near horrible people like those two who broke in here, and I thought a lasagne might cheer her up.’
‘And give you the chance to snoop around Turner Towers,’ said Nick. ‘That’s a great idea. But one thing, darling – make sure you make enough lasagne for us as well.’
She returned some time later to find Nick in a particularly happy state of mind.
‘Look at that: my new creation,’ said Nick, holding up the glass to La Contessa as she came back into the garden.
‘How is it different from any other martini?’ she asked.
‘I poured the vodka with my left hand,’ said Nick. ‘I think I will call it the “Quarantini” in honour of our COVID-19 lockdown together.’
‘It looks lonely – perhaps you could make it a friend for me,’ said La Contessa. ‘So, I dropped off my lasagne to Alice Turner.’
‘How was our dead billionaire’s sister?’ asked Nick. ‘Grateful for your generous gesture?’
‘Not exactly; she seemed rather grumpy about it really. Not what I expected from a woman so renowned for her philanthropy and good works.’
‘Maybe this coronavirus isolation is getting to her. Did she have very much to say?’
‘The only thing of interest was someone’s wedding – it’s being held on Zoom and she has no idea what that is.’
‘Whose wedding?’ asked Nick, handing over the freshly shaken martini.
‘The daughter of Lady Arabella Saunders, apparently.’
Nick jolted so suddenly that the liquid uncharacteristically sloshed from the glass. He stepped quickly over to the table where the pile of letters stolen from Turner Towers was sitting. He rifled through and held one up triumphantly. ‘Lord Ron and Lady
Arabella Saunders, Charles Turner’s old racing manager and his wife. Apartment 5.’
‘Wasn’t there something very dodgy about him? Didn’t the title come from a square-foot patch of Scotland bought online?’ asked La Contessa.
‘Yes – very dodgy, from my dealings with him in the past,’ said Nick. ‘But perhaps I can get us invited to that Zoom wedding and we can mingle with our suspects. In the meantime, don’t forget we have the ANZAC Day dawn service with a coronavirus difference in the morning.’
*
‘That was very moving, darling,’ said La Contessa, dabbing her eyes with a tissue as they stepped back into the garden from observing the ANZAC Day dawn service on the doorstep.
‘I have never missed a dawn service yet and the point is to honour our brave men and women no matter what,’ said Nick. ‘When they were called up, they had to make real sacrifices, and we are doing our bit by simply sitting on the couch.’
‘You have risen to the challenge rather marvellously though,’ observed La Contessa drily.
‘Yes, my grandfather wore a slouch hat while I merely slouched,’ said Nick. ‘But I have managed to do one thing. Turner’s racing manager, Ron Saunders, has secured us an invite to his daughter’s Zoom wedding.’
‘Gosh, that was marvellous, darling. He must have owed you a very big favour,’ said La Contessa. ‘Wasn’t there some scandal over a horse you investigated?’
Nick shifted uncomfortably. ‘What an amazing memory you have. Yes, the Doppelganger affair was the Fine Cotton of our generation,’ he said. ‘Two almost identical horses, one slow and one lightning fast. Saunders was swapping the quick one in on the big races and making a killing.’
‘I seem to remember you making a lot of money on that horse before you led the investigation,’ said La Contessa. ‘I’m surprised he did not go to jail.’
‘Ah yes, well, er,’ stumbled Nick before recovering. ‘The real surprise was that Charles Turner did not sack Saunders but kept him on as racing manager. It showed the billionaire was no angel, at least when it came to the racing game.’
‘I’m going to change for my workout,’ said La Contessa. ‘I want my body to look so young that if they put me on a ventilator they will assume my age has been noted incorrectly and not turn it off.’
The Dying Diplomats Club Page 19