by Ilsa Evans
‘Your mother used to babysit us,’ said Jennifer abruptly. ‘Dad told me. How’s she taking all this?’
‘I don’t actually know,’ I replied truthfully. ‘She’s been keeping us at arm’s length. Dealing with it all herself. Probably because of some of the other stuff involved.’
Paul was watching me. ‘Like …?’
‘Like … maybe that melting socks type of thing.’
We all fell silent, with nobody willing to breach it. I finished my coffee and put the mug down. Ground-breaking research indicates children prefer not to discuss sex lives of parents. Who knew? Petra picked up a biscuit and suddenly the sound of crunchy, crumbly chewing filled the room. It was enough to break the tension and we all laughed.
‘He belonged to some type of sexual fetish club,’ said Paul suddenly. ‘Felt compelled to share that information with me when I was thirteen. I think he was proud of it.’
‘Margie wasn’t in it,’ added Jennifer protectively. ‘Although …’
‘Although a couple of things she said once … we think he was also into wife-swapping.’
I nodded, almost with relief. ‘Same here.’ Then I realised both Paul and Jennifer were staring at me, clearly shocked. ‘No, not me! Our father, and our mother. And yours.’
Paul’s face closed. ‘You mean back when they were in Majic?’
‘Yes.’
‘With your parents?’
‘Yes. And the Hurleys from next door. And another couple that your father knew.’
‘God, the more the merrier. Fuck.’
‘Yes.’
Petra made a spitting noise. A piece of biscuit landed damply on my left hand. ‘We only found out yesterday. It’s disgusting.’
I wiped my hand surreptitiously on the armchair and then pulled the photograph from my handbag. I handed it to Paul, who examined it wordlessly. He flipped it over, read the inscription, and studied it again. He sighed softly before passing it to his sister. She placed a finger on the picture, touching her mother gently.
‘I know this is going to sound weird,’ said Jennifer, still gazing at it. ‘But I have so few photos of Mum. Do you think I could have a copy?’
‘Sure. No problem. And I should tell you that they only got together twice. Our father said your mother wasn’t keen on the whole thing. He was in love with her, you know.’
‘But she knocked him back,’ said Paul. ‘Yeah, the police told us.’
‘He says he didn’t do it.’
‘There’s a surprise. Why did he shoot through the next day then?’
‘Actually it was two days later,’ I corrected pedantically. ‘And he admits that your mother was one of the reasons. But there were others as well. He also says that your mother was in great spirits when he saw her. Upbeat. Excited.’
‘If she wasn’t running away to him, though,’ said Jennifer, leaning forward, the photo still in one hand, ‘then who was she running to?’
Silence fell once more. Because that, it seemed, was the million-dollar question.
Chapter Seventeen
I know this is an unusual request, but could you please send me a lock of your hair? If you prefer, a finger and/or toenail clipping would do. I cannot tell you what it will be used for (otherwise it may not work), but promise you it will be worth your while
Somehow, we ended up being taken out for lunch by Paul and Jennifer. We visited a quaint free-range egg farm run by a friend of Jen’s, which also provided wonderful farm-fresh lunches. During the course of the afternoon, the conversation occasionally lightened enough for us to discover that both siblings had left home as soon as they could, Jennifer spending many years in Darwin before her marriage broke up. Paul, much to Petra’s barely concealed delight, was apparently single. No ex-wives, no children, no baggage; an extremely rare phenomenon for our age group, according to my sister on the way home. She spoke with the smug satisfaction of a collector who had just completed a set.
Unfortunately, our unexpectedly social afternoon meant that I returned home too late to make the trip into Bendigo to fetch Quinn’s books. This also meant, apparently, that I was the worst mother in the world, and I was deliberately trying to make her life miserable. Every other mother had remembered to submit their order in time to have the materials delivered to the school, and every other child had been positively laden with books and stationery on the very first day. The upshot of being the worst mother in the world was that I had the entire evening to myself, while she remained in her bedroom sulking. I caught up on emails, sent Ruby an apology for missing our last Skype session, updated the blog with incidentals, and even unpacked another of the boxes from the garage.
Even so, I slept badly. Tossing and turning and finally waking within a mist of dream-residue, where images instantly faded but the feelings remained. I was in no mood to deal with Quinn, but fortunately she had undergone one of her mercurial shifts and appeared to have both forgiven and forgotten. I gave her a lift to school and then headed straight to Bendigo to collect the books, proving that honey succeeds where vinegar does not.
Afterwards, with them safely stored in the back seat and my bank account lighter by a few hundred dollars, I drove back to Majic, stopping at the nursery to purchase a handsome potted plant. Then it was on to Scarlet’s new unit, where I spent a very pleasant few hours admiring her improvements and helping her unpack the last of her possessions. She was noticeably puffier than last time I had seen her, only a few days before. Her centre of gravity also appeared to have shifted, with the pregnancy now low and heavy. This baby wasn’t due for two weeks but I suspected it wasn’t going to be quite that patient.
I wanted to ask Scarlet if she had heard any more about Ashley Armistead and his Holly Folly, but felt there was something particularly embarrassing about quizzing one’s daughter about the exploits of one’s boyfriend. Instead, we spoke about her younger sister, and Scarlet admitted that her brilliant idea had not been received with the enthusiasm she had anticipated. Not by Lucy nor by Matt, whom she had neglected to inform before making her offer. I commiserated before steering the conversation back to Scarlet’s own baby. It seemed that so much of Scarlet’s pregnancy had been about Lucy. She deserved to have her moment in the sun.
On the way home, however, with Lucy now on my mind, I stopped in the main street to visit the florist. I selected a bouquet of nodding jonquils, their cheerfulness infectious. I laid them gently on the front passenger floor and then straightened, and that’s when I saw them. My ex-husband Darcy, along with his fiancée Tessa Sheridan, pushing a very modern pram with chunky swivel wheels. They stopped right beside me as Darcy bent to check the occupant of the pram. I froze in the semi-bent position, wishing myself to invisibility. Amazingly enough, it worked. They turned towards the newsagency and I scuttled around the car and into the driver’s seat, pulling my hat forward as I slid down. I stared at my feet, my stomach twisting.
There was a knock at the window, beside my right ear. ‘Nell?’
Of course. Why was middle-aged invisibility so selective? I sighed as I brought my gaze up to that of my ex-husband. He was leaning down to peer through the glass. We remained like that for a moment, and then I lowered the window. ‘Hello, Darcy. How are you?’
‘Good, thanks. Are you okay?’
‘Never better. You?’
He laughed. ‘We just went through that.’
‘Okay.’
‘Listen, I was going to give you a call anyway. Something I wanted to run past you. It’s a bit awkward.’
‘As awkward as seeing you out with your new family?’ I asked.
‘Um, yeah. No. Probably more.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Look, Scarlet told me what was going on with Lucy and her … the father. And his mother.’
I was nodding. ‘Yes, that is awkward. Horrible situation, actually, and a horrible woman. Very dominating. Possibly a little unstable.’
‘So Scarlet said. So we were thinking – well, I wanted …’
I wondered if Tessa Sh
eridan was watching us. ‘Spit it out, Darcy.’
‘Okay. If Luce still doesn’t want to raise the baby, I can. We’ll bring it up with Sophie. Tess and I had a really long talk about it. It’ll be like having –’
‘Twins. Yeah, I know.’ I stared at him. ‘Are you kidding me?’
He looked embarrassed. ‘That’s why I thought I should run it past you. Because of the awkwardness. But, Nell, it could be the solution. Keep the baby in the family and all.’
‘I’m leaving,’ I said stiffly, unable to find the words for what I really wanted to say.
‘Sure. But think about it, will you?’
I watched as he walked around the car and then rejoined Tessa further down the footpath. I noticed that she had put on weight, her slightly swayed back pushing her stomach forward, almost as if she was still pregnant. This made me feel a little better. It wasn’t as if I wanted a reconciliation; that feeling had passed many months before. But it was still a jolt, seeing him so intimate with another woman. I suspected it always would be. How much worse if Lucy’s child were added to this happy little family? The last five prams he had pushed had been mine, and I had thought, without thinking, that there would be no more. Certainly not my own grandchild. The baby he already had was betrayal enough.
Chapter Eighteen
Your column sucks balls.
I remembered the flowers at six-thirty the following morning. This wasn’t because I had spent the evening embedded in ex-marital bitterness, but rather Lucy had not been home when I returned and then I had only just staggered inside with the load of books when Quinn arrived. There followed four hours of adhering contact paper to my extremities as I attempted to wrap her books. Nothing clears one’s mind better than the pursuit of hospital-cornered, crease-free contact success, undertaken while a fourteen-year-old breathes over your shoulder because apparently creases instantly label the owner as bogan. No doubt in other households, similarly-aged children were insisting on creased contact, because smooth covers instantly label the owner as an OCD twat.
I retired early, exhausted, and slept deeply and well. I woke shortly after the first flush of dawn and curled on my side to watch the net curtains shimmer with luminosity. It was then that I remembered the jonquils, still resting on the floor of my car. Perhaps I really was the worst mother in the world. I also appeared to be the only family member who wasn’t offering to bring up the child.
I padded downstairs, still in my oversized T-shirt, and made coffee. Everything was so quiet, so still, that it felt like I had tiptoed into another world. While the coffee was brewing, I peered outside to ensure nobody was around, and then made the dash to the car and back. It had been warm overnight and the flowers were not looking quite as cheerful as they had. I propped them in the sink, still in their cellophane, and hoped for the best.
I took my coffee into the study and worked for a while on a new column on the trials and tribulations of the back-to-school period, together with the usefulness of clear contact as an alternative to the Rorschach inkblot test. By the time I finished, Quinn was making breakfast in the kitchen. She had stacked her school supplies into a large box from the garage.
‘I suppose you want a lift to school?’
‘Actually, no. Griffin’s mum’s picking me up.’
‘Really? And is she picking you up because she thinks I wouldn’t have driven you?’
‘I dunno.’ Quinn poured honey straight from the jar over her cereal.
I watched her for a while, interested in the fact she was avoiding eye contact. ‘A Griffin is actually a creature with the body of a lion and the head of an eagle. Oh, and wings.’
‘And talons,’ said Quinn, finally glancing up. She grinned. ‘They were like the most powerful of all creatures.’
‘But I’m not sure they were seen as boyfriend material.’ I leant against the bench. ‘For starters, those talons …’
Her grin faded. She looked at me suspiciously.
‘So, are you? Going out with him, that is?’
‘What if I am?’ she shot back defensively. ‘Like, I’m almost fifteen years old! You can’t keep me as a child forever!’
‘Heaven forbid,’ I said with heartfelt sincerity. ‘But I still need to have a vague idea of what’s going on in your life. Even if I don’t provide lifts to school.’
‘Oh, okay. Well …’ She flushed self-consciously. A droplet of honey shone on her upper lip. ‘I think we are. He texts all the time, and hangs around at school, and like the other day his mum goes “Oh, here’s Griff’s girlfriend Quinn.” And he didn’t say anything.’
‘Well, if Lyn Russo announced it, then it does sound official. Why don’t you be proactive, though, if you want to be sure? Ask him yourself.’
‘God, you don’t understand anything!’ She stared at me for a moment and then flounced off towards the cardboard box, which she dragged noisily outside. The door slammed. I could see her leaning against the bay window, waiting for her lift. No doubt another example of how little I knew, as I would have made him get out of the car to knock on the door. Breaking news: mother attempts to pass on hard-won wisdom with little success.
I cleaned up her cereal and made myself another coffee. Gusto scratched at the sliding door so I let him in, gave him breakfast. Speaking of cars, what had happened to Dallas Patrick’s? What about her suitcase? The only thing buried with her had been her handbag, which suggested she’d brought that into the shop the day she was killed, leaving the suitcase in the car. And that suggested the visit had been intended as a short one, a detour perhaps, where she was most probably meeting someone before completing her trip. This brought me straight back to my father, who had indeed met her, and we only had his word for him having left her still alive.
I went back into the study and grabbed a sheaf of paper, then spread the sheets across the island bench. I started with a timeline of Dallas’s movements that day. The parade most probably began at eleven, which would mean the family group headed off around ten, ten-thirty, to get a good spot. Ballarat was about an hour and a half drive away. My father had seen her car after the Majic wreath-laying ceremony, which was the culmination of the parade, suggesting his sighting took place around eleven-thirty, quarter to twelve. All of which meant that Dallas must have left Ballarat almost straight away, either having already packed or throwing together a suitcase in a rush. And yet she had still taken the time to stop and buy her magazine? It didn’t make sense.
I moved on to the list of suspects. Paul Patrick Senior, because he was such a good fit despite his alibi; Margie Patrick, ditto; Harry Forrest, means and opportunity. I fetched the photo from my handbag and propped it against the sugar bowl. Eight temporarily carefree adults, full of life; their beaming smiles poignant in the light of what was to come. But one of them was the answer. Either the killer or the lover, or both. I added Rex and Clare to my list, along with a question mark, and then Uncle Jim and Rita, scribbling ‘doubtful – no motive’ alongside. That left me with Yen, her broad hat and sunglasses shadowing her face. She would also have had the means, being in town that day, plus motive. Her husband was in love with this woman, her marriage fading. Perhaps she hadn’t been quite as willing to let it go.
I sipped my coffee, staring at my two lists, so deep in concentration that I jumped when the phone rang. I slid it across the bench towards me. ‘Hello?’
‘I’ve had a brilliant thought,’ said Petra. ‘What if she didn’t leave Ballarat that morning?’
‘Huh?’
‘Bear with me. Everyone assumes Dallas Patrick left after they went to the parade, and that gives the father an alibi. But what if she didn’t?’
‘She was gone when they got back.’
Petra gave a hiss of exasperation. ‘I know that. But what if she was already gone? Paul said they had an argument the night before. So what if the father killed her then? What if he just told the kids in the morning that she’d changed her mind? He could even have staged a conversation in the bedroom. They were
kids, after all, and kids believe anything.’
I frowned as I gave this some thought. ‘It’s possible, I suppose.’
‘It’s the answer to everything. He stashes the body somewhere, maybe a shed, before flitting off for a fun day at the parade. Comes back, declares her missing and then disposes of the body in his own time. He’d know the backyard of his old shop was a pretty safe bet. Even buys a magazine and buries it with her so that if she’s ever discovered, the police will think she died that day. Tada! Alibi!’
‘What about the car? And what about the fact our father saw her on Anzac Day?’
‘Perhaps it was wishful thinking? Helped by a liberal amount of Anzac beer. Anyway, I haven’t got all the answers. But it requires a discussion with Paul Junior. I’ll do it.’
‘Oh, good of you. Very noble.’
‘Yes, I’m like that. Wish me luck!’
I hung up, smiling. This avenue of investigation didn’t appear very promising, given the loose ends. I returned to my timeline. The big question seemed to be why Dallas had stopped off here on her way to wherever. The answer to that would, no doubt, point to the killer. I made toast and then ate slowly. My father said that she had been surprised to see him, suggesting that she assumed both shops would be empty. He had come up the stairs, and there she had been – looking for something or other. Those had been his words. Not standing in the empty room waiting for someone, but looking for something. In the room where she died.
I ran upstairs and changed into pedal pushers and a T-shirt, then ran a damp brush through my hair before pulling on my black hat for good measure. Back downstairs, I grabbed the flowers from the sink, shaking droplets of water from the stems, and pushed Gusto back inside with one foot as I left. Lucy’s door was answered on my second knock and a bleary-eyed Kate Carstairs stood on the threshold, wearing the Tigger T-shirt I had gifted Lucy for her birthday. Her usually spiky hair lay tousled but relatively flat, making her look like a pixie.