by Sue Williams
Sue Williams is a science and travel writer and a chartered accountant who also holds a PhD in marine biology. Her articles have been published in a range of magazines and on ‘The Science Show’ on ABC Radio National. Sue lives in Melbourne with her husband. Murder with the Lot is her first book.
SUE
WILLIAMS
MURDER
WITH
THE LOT
textpublishing.com.au
The Text Publishing Company
Swann House
22 William Street
Melbourne Victoria 3000
Australia
Copyright © Sue Williams 2013
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
First published by The Text Publishing Company, 2013
Cover design by WH Chong
Page design by Text
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry : (pbk)
Author: Williams, Sue I.
Title: Murder with the lot / by Sue Williams.
ISBN: 9781922079787 (pbk.)
ISBN: 9781921961984 (ebook)
Subjects: Detective and mystery stories.
Dewey Number: A823.4
For Ross
Contents
Murder with the Lot
Author’s note
Murder with the Lot
If I wanted to hide somewhere there’s no way I’d choose Rusty Bore. A hundred and forty-seven residents and every single one of them is watching. No one here forgets a thing. Especially your mistakes.
It was a normal Friday evening in December, or so it seemed. I was auto-cleaning my spotless counter, considering putting up my row of knitted Santas in the window, when Madison Watkins arrived and tied up her ferrets out the front. I don’t permit animals in my shop, particularly not the frenzied, hissing kind. The doorbell jangled as Madison sashayed in.
‘The usual, thanks Cass.’ She slipped into one of my white plastic chairs and crossed her long legs.
I dropped her dim sims in the oil, gave her the welcome smile.
Madison is an overflowing-looking girl, fond of green eyeshadow and clothes that strain to contain. She’s not what you’d call fat, more a person that stores her weight in the right places. Sometimes I allow myself to toy with the idea that I still look a bit like Madison. I was runner-up Chiko Chick 1983, after all. Dim the lights and I could be Madison with twenty years’ more wisdom and experience. And two adult sons; some extra smile lines; supplementary stretch marks.
She picked up a copy of Truckin’ Life from the pile on the plastic table. ‘You’ve gotta get better reading material in here,’ she said. ‘Something with a few hunky blokes.’ Maybe that meant she’d split up with Logan. Maybe he was back in jail. Since she broke up with Brad, Madison had been steadily working her way through the local dropkicks.
‘I’ll bring in a few copies of Cleo,’ she said. ‘You should read the article about settling for Mr Reasonably OK. It’ll help you understand why you’re single.’ She sighed. ‘It’s your standards, Cass. They’re too high.’
I straightened up my pile of white paper, ready for precision wrapping. Reasonably OK didn’t sound exactly tempting. But it was true I could probably find space in my life for a nice fella, someone who made me laugh.
‘I mean, I know forty-five is getting pretty old, but…’
‘I’m in my prime.’ I tried not to bristle. I had to admit it was a drawn-out and alone type of prime since Piero died, what, one year, ten months and fifteen days ago. I met Piero when I was seventeen. And fell pregnant shortly after. Piero had a ferocity of fertility that was bloody well uncalled for.
‘Course,’ she said quickly. ‘And you still look terrific. Really.’ She gave me an appraising stare. ‘You could use a bit more makeup maybe. And a better hair cut. But you’ve got bones, and the voice isn’t bad. Blokes love that molasses-over-gravel thing.’ She uncrossed and recrossed her legs. ‘You know today’s forty-plus woman is having miles more orgasms than ever before? Saw that in Cleo.’ She paused. ‘You only get so many orgasms before you die.’
I shook her order in the oil.
‘Hey, I’ve just had a brainwave.’ She threw aside the magazine. ‘What about Vern? You two have got a lot in common. His shop, your shop.’
Vern’s general store and my place constitute the CBD of Rusty Bore, along with a row of three galvanised-steel silos. It’s a town endowed with a royal flush of used-to-haves since the school, the pub and even the op shop closed down.
‘And Vern fancies you. He’s motivated. Definitely.’ Madison stood up and walked over to my counter, all fired up. She put her arms up on the glass top, bangles jingling.
‘Uh huh.’ I’d experienced Madison’s brainwaves before. First up there was Ben, the McKenzies’ Landcare volunteer: tall, tousle-haired and divorced. I’ll admit I didn’t mind the way he wore his shirts unbuttoned and his jeans tight. But Ben wasn’t sure. He stopped at a very inconvenient time to tell me so, a serious case of lustus interruptus. He could be gay, he said, or maybe bi; he needed more experience to figure it all out.
Next was Will, sixty-two, soon-to-be-retired wheat farmer, on his own since Bronwyn died of dementia. Will had looked into my eyes and asked if I had Alzheimer’s in the family, then spent the evening sobbing into his chocolate and hazelnut terrine.
‘Reckon you need someone a little younger,’ Madison had said, lining up Adam, saggy-stomached computer sales rep from Mildura. Adam got down on his knee in the foyer of the Deakin cinema on our first date and asked me to marry him. Turned out he was already married. In three states. And a territory.
Finally, in desperation, she suggested Showbag. But even Madison knew there was no way that could ever work, not after what happened that time at Vern’s.
To be fair, it was Madison who told me about the blindfold speed dating night in Muddy Soak. That was a night with some real potential. I got talking, blindfold on of course, to a bloke with a gentle voice. He managed to make me laugh before the three minutes was up. He reached across the table and touched my hand, ignoring the signal bell to move on to his next date. But then the fire alarm went off, sprinklers gushing water, people stampeding everywhere. My chair got knocked over and I ended up on the floor. By the time I got my blindfold off, the bloke had gone. I had no idea of what he looked like; hadn’t even got his name.
‘Look, Madison, it’s nice you care…’
‘Standards,’ she wagged a finger. ‘You’re as bad as Tamie. She’s picky too.’
‘Tamie?’
She pointed at the six ferrets squirming on their leads outside. One was sitting alone, away from the others, staring at the road. The wind whipped some leaves against the shop window. Clouds stained the colour of rust were building in the sky, a dust storm on its way.
I hooked up Madison’s dim sims to drain. I don’t suppose anyone likes being compared with a ferret, especially one that’s a failure at the basic pursuit of ferreting. But was it possible Madison had a point? Was I being picky? There was nothing really wrong with Vern. He was mostly intact. It was just…
‘Thing is, Madison, just because the fella’s motivated doesn’t mean I am.’
‘Well, think about it. Vern’s not a bad bloke. I bet he’d stick by you. Not like…um.’
‘Not like who?’
‘Oh you know. Half the men around.’ She rubbed her face.
I wrapped up her order in fresh white paper.
&n
bsp; ‘So, um, Brad around?’ Madison cupped her chin in her hands and tried to look casual.
Brad’s my youngest, a certified organic vegetarian and friend of the earth, albeit with a weakness for the smell of frying bacon. He’s six foot one, straight black hair, exact spit of Piero. I just hope he doesn’t have the hyperactive fertility as well.
‘Abseiling the Hume Dam wall at the minute. Putting up a banner.’
‘Oh? What’s the banner say?’
‘Save the Murray.’ I’d tripped over that banner enough times, laid out for days along my hallway, held down by piles of old Australian Geographics and Chain Reactions. Before he left, Brad had borrowed another hundred bucks and was now categorically overdue the parental pep-talk. The one that mentions getting a job that pays some bills. And moving himself and those magazines out of my place. Trouble was, I liked having Brad around, and not just because he reminded me of Piero. I’d have to do it though. It’s not good for a boy to grow up viewing his mother as a slush fund.
‘Brad’s got so much passion,’ said Madison with a sigh. ‘Anyway, think about Vern. Seriously. Chicks like us need to get realistic.’
Chicks like us? I handed over her order. Maybe a woman my age couldn’t afford to be too picky, but Madison needed to raise her standards, not lower them. Madison could have almost anyone. Especially if she ditched the ferrets.
Not long after Madison left, trailing ferrets, the dust-storm hit. All living creatures fled the street as the red waves of wind ripped through town. The shop roof shuddered, corrugated iron screeching overhead. Within minutes the street was shrouded in a red–brown haze and Best Street’s solitary streetlight clicked on. My nose tingled as the air filled with the dust storm’s distinctive burning smell. I galloped around the shop, armed with towels and rags, plugging up every tiny gap. But the hot, gritty air still swirled into every crevice you might imagine and a few you’d rather not.
My doorbell jangled and I looked up, thinking it was Madison returning, taking cover from the dust.
It wasn’t Madison. A young fella in a grey suit. He was kind of oily looking, but then I operate in a permanent atmosphere of oil so I couldn’t hold that against him. And I know better than to turn away a customer based on looks.
‘Yeah, burger with the lot and chips.’ He flicked a look at my door. ‘And make it quick.’
Quick? Superior fast food takes time. I pride myself on quality chips; crisp on the outside, fluffy in the middle. And a top-notch burger with the lot requires precision stacking. With unhurried and steady hands. Comfort food’s been in my family for generations. I plonked his patty and onions onto the grill, then turned back round to give him the glare.
‘Oh, no onions,’ he said. ‘Or beetroot or egg. And I hate pineapple.’ Another glance at the door.
A burger without the lot, in fact. I scraped his onions off the grill. Dumped his chips into a basket and lowered it into the oil. I kept up the glare.
Skinny and slope-shouldered, he was holding tight to a briefcase, a scruffy-looking number with one of those combination locks near the handle. There were gold letters next to the lock that I couldn’t quite make out. His suit was torn, the sleeve shredded and bloodstained.
He looked like an accountant who’d been shoved backwards through his ledger. Or maybe he was a crook, a grubby white-collar kind. He didn’t let go of the case. He didn’t put it on the floor near his feet. He didn’t put it on the table while he waited for his order. He gripped it in a white-knuckled hand and darted glances out my window.
From his ripped-up sleeve, three drips of blood splashed on my floor.
‘You all right? Need a bandage?’ I said.
‘Nah. It’s…nothing.’ He didn’t sound too convinced of that.
‘I’ll phone the doctor for you.’ There’s no doctor in Rusty Bore but the hospital in Hustle is only forty clicks away.
‘No!’ His voice was sharp. He limped over to the door, peering up and down the road. ‘Anyone been in looking for me?’
I stared. ‘Not unless you’re called Minimum Chips.’ I tried a little smile to ease the tension.
‘You’re sure? No one’s been in after me?’ His voice was high.
My skin prickled.
‘I need somewhere quiet to stay for a while.’ The sleeve dripped more blood in my doorway.
I wiped the sweat from my hands onto my floral apron. Maybe I should phone Dean. Leading Senior Constable Dean Tuplin. My eldest. Only a senior constable at the moment, but on a career trajectory. I didn’t like to bother Dean without good cause, though. Not in view of that slight fiasco regarding Ernie.
‘So I can write my book. I’ve got to do it straight away,’ he said.
I gave his chips a little shake, put the basket back into the oil.
‘I can pay all right.’ He walked over, flipping open his wallet with the bloodied hand, still holding onto his case with the other. Inside the wallet was a photo of him with a girl, their heads close and cosy. Nice-looking girl. Maybe he had hidden talents under the unfortunate weaselly exterior.
He laid the wallet on my counter, slipped out a pile of shiny one-hundred-buck notes. His wallet was thick with them. ‘How much?’
I hooked up his order to drain and did some rapid thinking. There was Ernie’s old shack up at the lake. Ernie could do with the money, it would help him pay for his care now he’s in the home. ‘What’s your name, anyway?’
‘Clarence…Brown.’
‘Where you from?’
‘Ah…Melbourne. Looking for a sea-change.’
We’re approximately four hundred kilometres from the sea, but coming here would be a change all right. A million acres of wheat stubble. Good long stretches of red dirt. One salt lake. Shimmering.
I turned around and flipped his burger, laid out some bacon on the grill, turned back to face him. ‘What you do in Melbourne?’ I probably didn’t need to know that. But around here grilling a stranger for their secrets is better than a holiday.
He gave me a glassy look. ‘I’m…an accountant.’
Aha! But what kind of book would an accountant want to write? Some kind of textbook, maybe? Without delay, though? How urgent could an accounting textbook be? I kept my gaze fixed on Clarence. There was something about him that made me think of the time a huntsman spider found its way down my neck. The bristly soles of its too-many hairy feet against my skin. Ernie wouldn’t want any trouble.
‘And I don’t want some journalist getting all the credit.’ His voice was low, fierce. ‘This book’s gunna be a bestseller. Then they’ll see.’ He gave me a look that meant it.
‘Who’ll see what?’
He shrugged, staring at the floor. Mumble, something, mumble, Muddy Soak.
I stacked up Clarence’s burger then wrapped his order and put it on the counter. He handed me a wad of hundred-dollar notes. I counted them. Jesus. Five thousand dollars. For a place without electricity? I paused a tick. Well, what harm could he do to the place? It was pretty much a wreck. Ernie would be bloody happy to see the money, he’d be giving me one of his smelly-breath cackles when I took it up to him. And Ernie’s been good to me ever since I was a kid.
‘It’s up by Perry Lake. Make sure you keep the gate shut.’ I handed Clarence the key.
‘Thanks. And…just keep it to yourself…where I am,’ he whispered. Another drop of blood splashed onto the floor.
I woke the next morning as a car pulled up outside. Very early, just on dawn. I don’t like being woken by the sound of early-morning cars. Sometimes it’s followed by the sounds of smashing glass and of me yelling at kids to leave my bloody windows alone and bugger off.
I live in the weatherboard house behind the shop, it’s just me. And Brad, when he’s not away, tying up banners to save rivers, trees, birds or blue-tongue lizards.
I got up, pulled on my dressing gown and peered out of the window. The sky was slashed with jet trails tinted orange by the sunrise. I grabbed the sawn-off star picket I keep beside my bed.
Bustled up the hallway, firmly dressing-gowned and star-picketed, ready for rodent kids. But it wasn’t a rodent-kid kind of car. It was a clean-looking white car, a late-model Commodore. A dark-haired man in sunglasses sat at the wheel. He darted a look at my shop window, flicked out some chewing gum, then drove off. I went around the place, checking all my windows, my door, the till. All seemed intact. I grabbed my handbag. Check. It still contained Ernie’s wad, his five grand.
After breakfast I checked the bag again and headed out. I’d get Taylah to lock the money in the safe at the home, then I’d bank it for Ernie on Monday. I glanced at my watch. Nine o’clock. If I made it quick I’d be back before opening time.
My sky-blue Toyota Corolla might, like myself, be past its heyday, but it’s still a goer. The lock on the driver’s door was broken since someone tried to break in a couple of months back. I’d have to ask Brad to fix it, somehow get him galvanised. I sighed. Another pep-talk.
I got in the car from the passenger’s side, squeezing myself over the handbrake and gearstick into the driver’s seat.
I drove along Best Street, which some argue is Rusty Bore’s only street, illogically in my view since we’ve also got Second Avenue. I headed past the closed hardware shop, its dusty windows covered in graffiti. Past the old town hall, Rusty Bore’s own leaning tower of Pisa, propped up along one side with steel girders. Me and Piero danced at discos there in the early eighties. Him in his green Miller shirt, me in a silky white dress and long pearls from the op shop, deep into my Ultravox phase. It was there, out the back, that I first encountered Piero’s overactive fertility.
Piero would have known what to say to Brad. Thing is, the boy needs a skill, something practical to earn a living. What Brad hasn’t realised is that while everyone wants the planet saved, kind of, no one actually wants to pay for it. Still, he’s building important retail expertise in my shop. I hope.
‘How can you do it, Mum?’ he’d asked on his first day, when I got him to cut up a couple of fresh yellowbelly. ‘See their eyes? The way they look at you, full of blame?’