How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery

by Robin Storey

  She looked in his direction and the haughty gaze became real. He smiled again, but her eyes were already on the next customer. She certainly wasn’t savouring the ripe fruit of life. She’d gotten a sour one and was spitting out the pips.

  Another waitress brought his coffee. It coursed through his body like an electrical charge. He wasn’t used to real coffee yet; the stuff they gave you inside was like pencil shavings. He was ready for anything now – might even be able to outstare the battle-axe. As he left, he shot another smile in Nina’s direction, but she ignored him. It was rare for a woman not to return his smile.

  On the ground floor of the old, shabby building next door was the office of Delahunty & Brown, Chartered Accountants. A sign announced that the Brisbane North Probation and Parole office was on the first floor, along with Willet & Associates Financial Planners. Ironic, as his latest scam had been as a financial planner.

  The wooden steps creaked as Reuben walked up. The air was stale and musty, as if the walls were infused with the sweat and body odour of the thousands of lawbreakers who’d been there before him. The girl at the reception desk behind the glass panel looked far too world-weary for her young age.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, in a tone of voice that insinuated he was beyond her help.

  ‘Reuben Littlejohn. I have an appointment with Merle at nine o’clock.’

  ‘Have a seat.’

  He took a seat at the end of a row of plastic chairs, next to a drooping plant. At the other end slumped a scrawny, lank-haired girl in a short skirt and jumper. Her gaze flickered over him, then resumed its contemplation of the floor. She took no notice of the grubby toddler scrabbling in the toy box beside her. From her vacant look, she was probably a dope smoker or pill popper. The toddler picked up a small furry rabbit from the toy box and rubbed it all over his snot-encrusted face. Reuben looked away. He had a weak stomach for bodily secretions.

  Across from him a young guy in jeans, singlet and beanie was showing something on his mobile phone to his friend. They both snickered. They had a ‘fuck-you’ air about them, the sort that got their kicks from stealing cars and joyriding. A few seats away, a balding man with a ponytail flicked through a magazine. Drug dealer probably. And/or a bikie. He’d be much more at home in his leathers. They all had one thing in common – they didn’t want to be here. The air was thick with it. Even the plant looked as if it were dreaming of greener pastures.

  A door to his right opened. A saggy face under a helmet of grey hair peered into the waiting room. ‘Come in Reuben,’ it commanded.

  He took a seat in the interview room. Merle settled herself behind her desk, her shapeless dress streaming over her like a floral waterfall. The flab on her upper arms (bingo wings, his mother had called them) jiggled as she arranged her pens and notebook and fired up the computer.

  ‘How are you?’ she asked, without taking her eyes off the screen.

  ‘Fine, thank you. How are you?’

  Not that he cared less, but politeness was second nature to him. She had to be seventy, not out. Did they bring her out of retirement because they were short-staffed? Or was she one of those people who worked until they dropped because they had no other life? Perhaps one day, when she was in the middle of firing questions at some poor victim, she’d suddenly gasp, clutch her ample bosom and slump on to the desk; dead before you could shout, ‘I didn’t do it!’ Reuben hoped he wouldn’t be the unfortunate witness. Didn’t people often vomit or froth at the mouth when they were dying?

  Merle was talking. ‘I said, have you anything new to report since you were last here?’

  ‘Er … no. Everything’s much the same.’

  She stared at him as if trying to bore a hole into his brain with her eyes. You can’t fool me, her expression said, I know you’ve been sweet-talking little old ladies out of their nest eggs.

  To fill the silence, Reuben said, ‘I’ve been looking for a job. There are a few prospects, so it shouldn’t be too long.’

  ‘Hmmph, your track record so far isn’t impressive.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anyway, this is my last interview with you. I’ve finished your assessment and now I’m going to introduce you to your new parole officer.’

  She heaved herself out of her chair, opened the door behind her and called out, ‘Lucy!’

  Reuben’s heart lifted. His new officer had to be nicer than this one. And younger.

  Merle stepped aside and a woman entered the room holding a mug of coffee.

  ‘Reuben, this is Lucy. She’ll be supervising you from now on.’

  Lucy smiled. ‘Hi, Reuben.’

  Reuben stood up and opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He gazed at the vision before him. Petite and fine-boned, full-cream milk complexion, auburn curls that fell around her face and slanted emerald eyes that lent her a feline air. While his fellow inmates had entertained trite fantasies of long-legged blondes with bountiful breasts, Reuben had dreamed of a redhead with a delicate figure; small, neat breasts and the face of a Botticelli angel. It was a fantasy he’d had since he was old enough to have fantasies – from Grade Six in primary school, when he’d talked Jocelyn Freshwater into kissing him behind the boys’ toilets. But Jocelyn had dyed her hair, put on weight and had a tribe of kids by the time she was twenty-one. Since then, no woman he’d met had come close to his fantasy. Until now.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Merle.

  Lucy slid into her chair and placed her mug on the desk. ‘How are you, Reuben?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’ His voice came out as a croak.

  ‘Just excuse me while I log in.’

  He watched her hands as they flew over the keyboard. Small and slim-fingered. A gold band on her left hand. Of course she was married. So was he.

  She looked up and smiled again. ‘You can sit down.’

  His legs had become light as air and he sat down abruptly. He smiled back at her to hide his embarrassment but it felt fake. As if every time he’d ever smiled in his life, it had been fake, and he’d have to invent a new smile worthy of its recipient.

  ‘Now then,’ Lucy said. Her eyes reminded him of the ocean, and he imagined diving into them. What would you find at the bottom of someone’s eyes? Just a lot of corneal tissue, probably. But Lucy would have the most beautiful corneal tissue imaginable.

  ‘I’ve read Merle’s assessment, so I know a fair bit about you already.’

  I can do better. Honestly, I can.

  ‘How are you going with finding a job?’

  He put on his let’s-be-frank-no-bullshit expression. That felt fake, too.

  ‘To tell you the truth, not very well at the moment. But I have an appointment at the employment agency this morning, so I’m hopeful something will turn up.’

  ‘I like your positive attitude,’ Lucy said. When she smiled, faint lines fanned out on the translucent skin around her eyes. Early thirties, he decided. He hoped she wouldn’t ask him about his attempts at employment. No doubt Merle had already recorded them, but it would be embarrassing to re-live them.

  He was trying hard to forget his first and last night as a waiter in an Italian restaurant, tripping over the leg of a chair with his arms full of plates of pasta. An elderly customer found her lap full of tortellini and her husband garnished with slivers of Parmesan cheese. The boss sacked him on the spot, threatening to deduct their dry-cleaning bills from his non-existent wages.

  The next job was an improvement – he lasted two days as a brickie’s labourer. On the first day he left the cement in the cement mixer while he went to lunch. When he turned it on afterwards the mixer jumped into the air and crashed to the ground, still grinding, like a huge, ungainly insect stranded on its back. The cement inside it was rock hard. His fate was sealed on the second day when, as he trudged through the site with a plank of wood on his shoulder, someone called, ‘Look out, Littledick!’ As he turned around, the plank of wood gave the foreman, passing by at that moment, a resounding whack on the side of the h
ead. That afternoon he was given two days’ pay and fired. He never found out who’d called out the warning.

  ‘I’m trying to be positive,’ Reuben said. His heart swelled as he gazed at her flawlessly sculpted neck, the curve of her jaw and her pale chest, lightly dusted with freckles. She wore a jade blouse that matched her eyes. He felt another part of his body swelling and he wrenched his eyes away from her breasts. Get a grip! This is your parole officer, for fuck’s sake.

  ‘But it’s difficult when selling is the only thing I’m good at, and I’m not allowed to do it.’

  This was only partly true. Fraud was the only thing he was good at, the only business he’d ever been in. And that involved selling yourself – if you could do that, you could sell anything.

  ‘I realise this, Reuben,’ Lucy said. Not for the first time he wished his mother had not been so given to flights of fancy. A solid name like Jake or Michael would have made his life so much easier. As Jake, he would have been a different person – solid, reliable, law-abiding. As Jake, he could have married Lucy. Or at least slept with her.

  ‘But you have to accept this as a consequence of your offending. I’m sure if you talked to all those people you defrauded of their life savings, they’d have a different slant on it.’

  He didn’t defraud anyone of their life savings. Not intentionally. Not only were his customers all filthy rich, the funds they invested were undeclared income they wanted to hide from the tax office. He and Derek were strict on those two criteria. Three, if you counted the rule of no drug money. It was too dangerous associating with thugs and there was always the risk of the drug runners being under police surveillance. It was surprising how many ordinary people with normal lives and careers had money they had come by illegally, or ‘cash in hand’ they didn’t want to declare. Conning the conmen – when they lost their money they didn’t dare go to the police. It was beautiful. And foolproof, until Derek became greedy and started reeling in people with legitimate money. It was all his fault.

  But he didn’t say it because he knew Lucy wouldn’t be impressed. He’d done the Making Choices Program in jail and passed Victim Empathy with flying colours. But it was hard to change your thinking. When you’d witnessed your mother struggling to pay the bills despite slaving her guts out, and heard her sobbing in her bedroom when she thought you were asleep, it was natural to grow up resentful of the rich.

  He looked Lucy in the eye and flashed a smile. ‘I know.’

  ‘You’re well-presented and you seem intelligent. I’m sure you’ll find something.’

  She paused, reading something on her computer. He’d give his eye teeth to see what the old bat had written about him.

  ‘I see you got married recently. That must present some challenges, coping with life on the outside and a new marriage at the same time.’

  ‘It has its moments,’ Reuben admitted. Moments made up of Nancy and Alec, Carlene’s sister Jolene; her husband Wayne and their bratty kids. ‘But so far, so good, we’re still in our honeymoon phase.’

  He was gratified to see a faint colour rise in her cheeks. A little demureness in a woman was a great turn-on. He felt a stirring in his jeans again. Steady on, he’d have to walk out of there very demurely himself if he wasn’t careful.

  ‘No doubt Merle talked to you about your management plan,’ Lucy said, briskly changing the subject. ‘Can you remember what was in it?’

  Reuben looked at her blankly. He couldn’t remember Merle mentioning a management plan – it made him sound like a natural disaster. But his mind had wandered during the interviews and for all he knew, she could have recommended cold showers and a ten kilometre run every day. She should have been a screw instead of a parole officer.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t.’

  Lucy gave him a faint look of disapproval. ‘It’s not too onerous. In fact, you should consider yourself lucky. For some reason, the Parole Board didn’t make a condition on your order to attend psychological counselling, which they usually do for people convicted of fraud. So Merle, as your assessment officer, had to decide whether or not to make it part of your management plan. She noted you’d done a lot of counselling in prison and passed all your programs with glowing reports, so she decided not to include it.’

  So the old bag wasn’t so bad after all. He could almost kiss her fat, smelly, bunioned feet.

  ‘But I still have the option of sending you to a psychologist if I think you aren’t coping,’ Lucy added.

  Reuben nodded. I’ll cope, no worries.

  ‘So, as you’ve stated that financial need was the reason for your offending, the only intervention on your plan is to obtain employment. I see you’re registered with Employment Initiatives, so I’ll be making sure you attend that and are doing everything in your power to get a job.’

  She paused. ‘How are you managing financially?’

  He shifted in his chair. ‘Okay. Carlene has a job as an admin officer for an overseas aid charity, and her parents are helping out with the bills until I get a job.’

  ‘That’s good of them. You’ve really fallen on your feet, haven’t you?’

  She looked hard at him. It suddenly occurred to him that maybe she thought he’d conned Carlene into marrying him because of her wealthy family, so he could have an easy ride. He couldn’t blame her, given his history. But in reality, it had been Carlene who’d forced the issue.

  Reuben had avoided marriage until meeting her and wasn’t keen on the idea, particularly after such a whirlwind courtship – if you could call meeting once a week in the prison visiting room and indulging in a chaste hug at the end of it, a courtship. Carlene was a friend of Warren’s girlfriend, Liz, who visited him regularly. Warren had told Liz about his cellmate – ‘a good-looking dude, smart, the sort women wet their knickers over’, and Liz had suggested to Carlene that she write to Reuben. As an act of compassion, to help ease his loneliness.

  After receiving a long, rambling letter from Carlene describing in extravagant detail the saga of her life so far, Reuben wrote back, inviting her to visit. Carlene got permission from the prison authorities and accompanied Liz one Saturday afternoon. Reuben was fascinated by her, despite, or perhaps because she was nothing like his ideal woman. He watched frizzy tendrils of hair escaping from her ponytail as she spoke in her low, slightly breathless tone; and the way she hunched her shoulders when she giggled and played tantalisingly with the top button of her blouse when she was thinking. The two of them, along with Warren and Liz, became a regular double date on Saturday afternoons. When Carlene brought up the subject of marriage, two months before his release, his first instinct was to run, figuratively speaking; and he laughed it off.

  But Carlene was persistent in a ruthlessly seductive way. When you’re behind bars, a raised eyebrow and wiggle of the backside from a female visitor can be very persuasive, and he’d finally surrendered. He’d already made up his mind that once out this time, he was never going back. He was thirty-five and it was time he settled down. With Carlene’s support, he could make a new life for himself. Would he have married her if her family wasn’t wealthy? Probably not. But it was turning out to be not as much of a bonus as he’d thought.

  ‘It’s not as cushy as it sounds,’ he said. ‘Carlene’s parents are very suspicious of me, and they don’t cut me any slack.’

  And please don’t say it’s a consequence of my offending again. Mercifully, she didn’t – she was busy writing out his next appointment slip. She handed it to him and he signed it below her name. Lucy Prentice. A perfect name. Compact, with a lyrical beauty – like its owner.

  She handed him back his copy of the appointment slip. ‘I’ll see you in a fortnight, Reuben.’

  She stood up. He wasn’t going to let her go that easily. He stood up and put out his hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Lucy.’

  After a moment’s hesitation, she placed her hand in his. It was warm and soft, like a fragile bird, but her handshake was firm. Reuben fought an urge to tighten his grasp and trap her ha
nd in his, the two of them locked in a handshake over the desk. As he left the room, his hand tingled where it had touched hers.

  CHAPTER 2

  His interview at Employment Initiatives was even less stimulating. For a start, his case manager Dave was not the type to inspire confidence. Reuben thought of him as ‘Droopy Dave’ because he resembled a basset hound with his long face and mournful eyes. Even his ears were droopy – large and elongated, with fleshy earlobes.

  Droopy Dave looked at Reuben’s file on the desk in front of him and clicked his teeth. ‘You’re making it very difficult.’

  Reuben burned with indignation. It wasn’t his fault he’d been sacked from two jobs. Okay, it was, but he didn’t do it on purpose.

  ‘There must be something I can do.’

  Dave shook his head. ‘Nothing that doesn’t involve handling money. You’ve really narrowed your options.’

  His face rumpled in concentration. ‘Perhaps I can get you assigned to a course. Can you think of any you’d like to do?’

  ‘What about photography?’

  Dave looked up, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

  ‘Are you interested in that?’

  ‘As long as I can do nude models.’

  The corners of Dave’s mouth sagged. ‘I suggest you go home and have a long, hard think. Brainstorm. Write a list of every occupation that interests you. I’ll give you a hint – think about what you liked doing as a child, what your talents were. That’s your homework for next time.’

  ***

  Reuben stared unseeingly out the bus window. Bloody homework. He didn’t have to brainstorm or make a list. He knew what the outcome would be. Zilch. As for what he liked doing as a child – watching TV while waiting for Mum to come home from her cleaning job, daydreaming and thinking up schemes to make money from the kids at school. Nothing you could make a career out of, or at least, a law-abiding career.