She reviewed what she had written so far, and jotted a few more notes. That was all she could do for now, until she had more information. Perhaps Rachel could fill in some blanks. She picked up the phone and dialled her number.
‘Sorry about that,’ Catherine said crisply when Rachel answered. ‘I was in the middle of something, now I can give you my full attention.’
‘Okay,’ said Rachel, her voice flat.
‘Have you spoken to Tom?’
‘No, only Scott.’
‘Scott?’
‘Tom asked him to make the calls. Lexie was hysterical apparently.’ There was a pause before she added, ‘I think maybe I should go over there.’
‘Of course, you should, that’s a good idea. See what you can find out.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Oh, you know, the details,’ said Catherine. ‘I would come with you, but I can’t get away right now.’
‘It’s seven o’clock, you can’t leave work yet?’
‘I’m in court tomorrow morning, Rachel, I can’t just sail in there unprepared.’
‘Sure . . .’ There was a long pause before Rachel spoke again. ‘I just don’t understand how this could have happened,’ she said vaguely.
‘Don’t worry, I intend to find out.’
Catherine was obviously the only one who could be counted on to stay focused, get to the bottom of what had happened and instigate appropriate action.
As it turned out, there was nothing at the bottom.
The autopsy revealed that Annie had idiopathic dilated cardio-myopathy, a condition she would most likely have had most of her adult life. The flu had made her weak, and the Ventolin administered via a nebuliser produced a sinus arrhythmia in her heart, which went undetected because Annie was not on a heart monitor. This was not routine hospital procedure for inpatients placed on a nebuliser to treat obstructive airways disease. Ventolin was highly contraindicated when ventricular dysfunction was present, but Annie had never been diagnosed. Apparently the condition would have started to make its presence felt over the next decade, and there was a very high risk of serious, and probably fatal, heart failure in her fifties.
So there it was . . . a sequence of events, so ordinary and routine for anyone else but with such catastrophic consequences for Annie. It could not be undone, rectified, noted on the file so it wouldn’t happen next time. There was not going to be a next time for Annie.
Catherine could do nothing to redress the fact of her friend’s death, there was no group to support, no awareness to raise, she couldn’t even buy a lousy ribbon to pin on her lapel. So instead she applied her considerable energies to the funeral. The family had already chosen the church and cemetery, but that was all they got to choose. She told Tom she would take care of everything, he didn’t need to worry about a single detail. He had enough to deal with. As none of his family lived in Sydney they’d all had to stay over at the house – his parents, brother Peter from Melbourne, sister Holly from Newcastle with her husband and kids – so Catherine could only imagine the state the house was in by now. She’d hired a small but elite event organiser who would dispatch a troop of cleaners and caterers to arrive at the house the moment they left for the funeral. They were instructed to prepare simple, elegant canapés, nothing too rich, spicy or pretentious, and nothing hot – this was a wake, not a cocktail party. The tone should be restrained and refined. And still wine only, sparkling was obviously not appropriate. Catherine then turned her attention to the funeral itself; she liaised with the undertakers and the minister over the order of service, designed the booklets and had them printed, selected music and readings, and booked a string quartet.
Then there were just the flowers to organise, and that was to be her pièce de résistance.
A magnificent hedge of gardenias graced the entire front boundary of Catherine and Martin’s home in Queens Park. Over the years the hedge had been nurtured, coaxed, trained and pruned to Catherine’s exacting instructions, resulting in a spectacular display of fragrant blossoms every spring. Catherine insisted Annie had a special fondness for gardenias, as she had never failed to comment on the hedge when it was in bloom. Of course she did, it was breathtaking, anyone would comment, not least Annie, who had been known to make kind comments about the sad old pot plants stuck out on Rachel’s balcony.
Nonetheless, Catherine arranged to have the entire twenty metres of hedge harvested at dawn on the morning of the funeral, to avoid wilt and discolouration. The blooms were then transported by refrigerated van to a team of waiting florists who worked for several hours to assemble the casket cover, whereupon the same refrigerated van delivered it to the funeral parlour, accompanied by three of the florists, who proceeded to install the delicate and elaborate arrangement into place.
When Catherine left the house later that day for the funeral, the sight of the stripped gardenia hedge had stopped her momentarily in her tracks. It was so bare, like a shaved head. Her public expression of grief.
The result was stunning, the gardenias forming a lacy tablecloth which draped over the entire surface of the coffin. If Vogue did a Funeral issue, it would have made the cover.
But somehow the whole thing felt wrong to Rachel. Not that it wasn’t perfectly orchestrated down to every last detail – so very Catherine, just not so very much Annie. Lexie had been in such a heightened state of distress all week she had been no use at all, so Rachel had been commandeered into helping Catherine, or rather, following her orders to the letter. She could see it was getting out of hand, and she should have said something, but she didn’t really have the wherewithal to take on Catherine right now. She had been in a kind of daze ever since Scott had phoned that night, operating on automatic pilot. It hadn’t hit her yet, she decided. She hadn’t cried, so surely it just hadn’t hit her.
She thought it would at the funeral, but it didn’t feel like a memorial to Annie’s life, it was Catherine throwing an extravagant party with Annie as the guest of honour. And she certainly was that. The church was packed, which was to be expected when someone died so young, but Annie had always had a way of drawing people to her. She was on first-name basis with local shopkeepers; she struck up conversations with taxi drivers and delivery men and charity collectors, and she had been a regular volunteer at the girls’ schools over the years. It seemed as though anyone and everyone who had ever crossed paths with Annie had come to pay their respects. People would say it was a good turnout; they would say – because what else could you say – that it was a lovely service.
But Rachel’s heart ached for Tom and Sophie and Hannah, sitting there bewildered in the middle of it all. The girls were clutching simple bouquets of flowers from their garden, flowers their mother had grown, but they didn’t dare place them anywhere near the casket to risk spoiling the effect.
Even back at the house any sense of Annie had been stifled, yet the house had always been all Annie – relaxed and inviting, and a little quirky, much like its owner. Every stick of furniture, every item on display, had some history, whether inherited, received as a gift, or even salvaged from a pile on clean-up day. Rachel’s flat had been similarly furnished with other people’s cast-offs, but Annie had had a knack of throwing it all together. Catherine had begged to differ, remarking aside to Rachel once that tossing a couple of stones and shells collected on a walk into a bowl did not make one an interior designer.
But today the house resembled a film set. Catherine’s team had moved furniture to make more room, hidden away all personal items and effects, and instead placed formal floral arrangements on every available surface, alongside large framed photographs of Annie. Her lovely old scrubbed pine kitchen table was concealed under a starched white linen cloth, and her eclectic, eccentric collection of chairs was out of sight, except for a couple of matching ones that must have been deemed acceptable. The intention was clearly that no one was to be sitting around getting too comfortable, but Annie had only ever wanted people to be comfortable in her home.
Much of the time Rachel spent propping up Lexie, who was so fragile she kept dissolving into tears. She had finally turned to Rachel and said in a small voice, ‘I don’t think I can stay any longer. Do you think anyone will mind? I just need to be with my kids.’ Rachel assured her that no one would mind, and Scott was relieved to be able to get her out of there.
The hired help seemed to have everything under control, so Rachel circulated amongst the relatives and family friends she had met on occasion over the years. Tom’s parents told her how after the ‘dreadful call’ they had driven through the night to get to him. They’d left in such a rush they had to contact neighbours the next day to check on their pets, and his mother had to go out and buy a dress for the funeral because she hadn’t packed anything suitable. ‘You don’t actually think straight at a time like that,’ she confided to Rachel. They were leaving straight after the wake, dropping Pete at the airport, and then breaking the trip overnight at Holly’s. They were anxious to get back home and set up everything nice for Tom and the girls, who were following in a day or two.
Catherine ranged around the place, wineglass in hand, casting her scrupulous eye over the proceedings, hissing orders at the wait staff. As afternoon approached evening, people began to take their leave, and when Rachel saw Tom hugging his parents at the door, she wondered if she ought not go too. But she hesitated; she hadn’t really had a chance to talk to him, or the girls; in fact, it occurred to her she hadn’t even laid eyes on Hannah or Sophie for some time. She did a quick survey around the living room and was about to check out back when Catherine stopped her in the kitchen.
‘Are you after a drink?’ she asked, waving a bottle.
Rachel detected a slight slurring of her speech. ‘No, I’m right for now, thanks, Catherine. I was just looking for the girls, to say goodbye.’ She peered through the flyscreen door out to the garden. ‘Is Alice with them, do you know?’
Catherine shook her head. ‘I sent her home with Martin a while ago,’ she said, filling her glass. ‘I think it was all getting a bit much for her, she’s never had anyone this close die before.’
If Rachel was not mistaken, Catherine’s eyes had misted over. But then she blinked rapidly and drank down half her glass.
‘You did a great job today, Catherine,’ said Rachel.
‘Do you think so?’ She looked vaguely anxious. ‘I worried I’d gone a little overboard, but I just wanted it to be perfect for Tom. And the girls,’ she added quickly.
‘I’m sure they appreciated it.’ Rachel watched her drain the rest of her glass. ‘How are you getting home?’
‘I’ll call Martin when I’m ready, or else I’ll get a cab.’
‘Do you want to share one?’ Rachel suggested, thinking perhaps the biggest favour she could do for Tom might be to make sure Catherine went home.
But she shook her head. ‘No, you go ahead, I’ve still got things to finish up here.’
‘Do you need a hand?’
‘No, no, it’s all under control,’ she said, topping up her glass again.
‘Ms Rourke.’
They both turned towards the door where one of the wait staff was standing.
‘The bulk of the guests have left, or are preparing to. Is it all right to start packing up our equipment?’
‘Well that depends,’ Catherine said sharply.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Rachel, slipping out of the line of fire and back into the living room. An informal queue was snaking towards the front door where Tom was pretty well ensconced farewelling his guests. She definitely had time to seek out the girls, and the last place she decided they could be was up in their rooms, unless they’d fled the house, which might have been tempting but was unlikely nonetheless. The layout of Tom and Annie’s house would have mirrored Scott and Lexie’s, but the previous owners had done the kind of renovation Lexie could only dream about, giving them a master bedroom and a study/music room on the ground floor, so they could turn upstairs over to the girls. When Rachel arrived at the landing at the top of the stairs, Hannah’s door was wide open, but the room was empty. Sophie’s door was closed, so Rachel knocked.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Rachel.’
There was a pause before she heard Hannah announce, ‘You can come in.’
Rachel opened the door tentatively. Sophie was sprawled on the bed, her feet up the wall, while Hannah had arranged a nest for herself out of pillows and cushions on the floor. Although she smiled up at Rachel, her eyes were red and swollen.
‘We’re hiding out,’ she said.
‘So I see,’ said Rachel, leaning against the doorjamb.
Hannah screwed up her face. ‘My head hurts from everyone patting it all the time.’
‘I can’t stand how they stare at you,’ said Sophie. ‘They’re like people who slow down to look at an accident. What exactly are they hoping to see?’
Rachel decided they probably didn’t want her gawking at them either. ‘Well, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I won’t tell anyone you’re here.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Hannah. ‘You can stay if you want.’
‘Are you sure?’ Rachel glanced over at Sophie.
She shrugged. ‘As long as you don’t say anything lame.’
‘It’s a deal,’ said Rachel.
Once the caterers had packed all the equipment into their van, Catherine supervised the placement of the furniture back the way it had been. There were only a few stragglers left, colleagues of Tom’s, she gathered, standing out front smoking cigarettes and finishing their beers. Catherine was biding her time, waiting for them to leave. She had barely said two words to Tom all day; she was looking forward to having a quiet drink with him, to see how he was holding up, make sure he was pleased with the way everything had gone today.
She was pouring herself another glass of wine when Tom appeared in the entrance to the kitchen. ‘There you are,’ he said.
Finally. She smiled her funeral smile, subdued but consoling, the kind of smile one had to master in family law. ‘You poor man, you haven’t had a moment to yourself all day,’ she said. ‘Let me get you a glass.’
But he was shaking his head. ‘No thanks, Catherine, I’m beat. Listen, Dave has just offered to give you a lift home.’
Catherine took a moment to process that and prepare her response. ‘Oh, that’s okay, Tom, I need to finish up with the caterers.’
‘They’ve just left,’ he said.
‘Pardon?’ she blinked.
‘I told them they could go.’
‘Well have they put everything back the way it was? They were under strict instructions –’
‘All the furniture is back in place,’ he assured her.
‘But I had them move some things out to the garage, the extra chairs and –’
‘It’s okay, I’ll get them later, tomorrow.’
‘And there’s all your things, ornaments . . .’
‘The girls will take care of that, they know how everything was,’ said Tom. ‘Honestly Catherine, you’ve done more than enough. I don’t know how to thank you.’
But she did. ‘Have a drink with me,’ she suggested.
He smiled awkwardly. ‘Thing is, I think Dave might want to get going.’
‘That’s fine, I can make my own way home, Tom.’
His eyes flickered to the glass in her hand. ‘That’s probably not a good idea, Catherine.’
‘No, I mean I can get a cab.’ She paused, frowning. ‘When did Rachel leave anyway? She didn’t say goodbye.’
‘I’m not sure,’ he shrugged.
Dave appeared behind him then, rattling his keys. ‘Hey Cath, ready to hit the road?’
She was getting pissed off now. No one called her Cath, and she did not like to be handled. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right alone?’ she asked Tom.
‘I’ve got the girls,’ he reminded her. ‘I think we need some time together, just the three of us.’
That was that then, he’d played hi
s trump card, she could hardly force the issue now.
‘Of course,’ she said, restoring her composure. ‘That’s exactly what you need to do, Tom, we’ll get right out of your way.’ She finished off what was left in her glass as she walked across the kitchen, rinsed it in the sink and upturned it onto the draining board. ‘I’ll just get my things,’ she said to Dave.
‘The flowers were so pretty,’ Hannah sighed. ‘There must’ve been like a million.’
‘There wasn’t anything like a million, Han,’ Sophie refuted.
Eventually Sophie had slid down off the bed to join Rachel and Hannah on the floor. They were both bright, confident girls, though quite different in many ways. To look at especially; Hannah’s hair was a riot of honey-coloured curls, while Sophie had the fine, straight, white-blonde hair of her mother. Hannah was bubbly and outgoing and wore her heart on her sleeve. She was much more like Tom, whereas Sophie had a certain level of reserve; not that she couldn’t be outspoken, but sometimes Rachel wondered just what was going on in her head.
‘Well, there were a lot of flowers anyway,’ Hannah was saying. ‘But why did they put them in the grave? They just would’ve got covered up with dirt and then they would’ve all died.’
‘What were we going to do with them?’ Sophie asked her sister.
‘Maybe we could have laid them over Mum’s piano,’ Hannah suggested.
‘Morbid,’ Sophie declared. ‘Besides, haven’t you noticed all the flowers downstairs? I’m totally flowered out.’
‘Gardenias don’t last very long anyway, Han,’ said Rachel. ‘They go brown really quickly, especially if they’re handled too much. So in a way, they were perfect for . . . you know, a one-off occasion.’ Bugger. She could have put that better.
‘You know why we buried her, Rachel?’ Sophie said suddenly.
It sounded like a rhetorical question, or at least one she didn’t expect Rachel to answer, which was just as well because Rachel didn’t have a clue what to say to that.
‘Dad thought we wouldn’t handle seeing her cremated,’ Sophie went on. ‘But I think Mum would have chosen to be cremated.’
Three’s a Crowd Page 4