How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery

by Robin Storey

  He’d done enough research to be able to answer standard questions about his occupations and overseas trips, although, he had of course supplied false names and phone numbers for his referees. In the event of a potential employer phoning both those numbers and finding that both businesses must have folded and the owners moved on ... he’d have to put that down to bad luck. He didn’t have a plan for that, indeed he’d hoped to score a job on face value alone – up until now his whole life had been based on making favourable personal impressions. He’d only done the resume because Droopy Dave had insisted he have one.

  When Dave had read it, he fixed Reuben with his basset hound gaze. ‘How much of it is true?’

  ‘None.’

  He sighed and shook his head, earlobes flapping.

  Reuben lost patience. ‘Look, if I put in only legitimate jobs, the resume would be blank, except for a couple of telemarketing jobs during the uni holidays. Is that likely to get me anywhere?’

  Droopy Dave drew in a deep breath. ‘If you wish to use that resume, it is entirely your decision. I just want it put on record that I do not condone it and I have, in no way, been associated with its creation.’

  ‘I should hope not,’ Reuben said. ‘There’s no way I’m sharing the credit.’

  And today was the first occasion he’d been asked to produce it. He handed it to Posie with his completed application form, but she gave it only a cursory glance. Reuben was disappointed but at the same time relieved.

  ‘Now, can you take your shirt off, please?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Your shirt – can you take it off?’

  Was this a joke? Posie tapped away on her computer as if it were a perfectly normal request. She stopped and looked up.

  ‘Come on, honey, there’s no room for shyness in showbiz. Unless…’ She gave a knowing smile, ‘you’re just pretending to be shy.’

  ‘I’m not shy, I didn’t expect this.’

  He stood up, undid the buttons on his shirt and draped it over the arm of the couch. At that moment there was a knock on the door and Sam entered with a tray of plunger coffee and two mugs. If she were surprised to see a half-naked man in her boss’s office trying desperately to maintain his cool, she hid it well. She poured the coffee with deadpan efficiency and left, with just a telltale flicker of her eyes in Reuben’s direction.

  Posie came around from her desk and stood in front of him. She surveyed him from all angles with a thoughtful expression, as if he were a painting she was thinking of buying and she was considering whether he would go with the rest of her decor.

  ‘You need to lose a little bit of this.’ She patted her own non-existent stomach. ‘Then I could possibly get you some modelling work.’

  Reuben looked down at the slight roundness of his belly and sucked it in. She was right about that. But modelling! Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined himself as a model – casually strolling through the pages of Vogue magazine, with granite jaw and faraway eyes, holding the hand of a haughty-faced child-woman with endless legs and the smallest of skirts. Too pretentious. He’d knock back the Vogue offers and stick to jeans and t-shirt, with an air of devil-may-care ruggedness, advertising protein supplements for Men’s Health magazine.

  ‘Thanks,’ Reuben said. ‘I’ll work on the stomach.’

  Posie retrieved a sheet of paper from her desk and handed it to him.

  ‘These won’t take you long to learn. I’ll go and give Simon the heads-up.’

  ‘Oh,’ she added, with a playful smile, ‘you can put your shirt back on.’

  Fully clothed again, he read the short paragraph headed ‘Wheat Flakes Ad’. He was to pretend to take a box of Wheat Flakes from the pantry and pour some into a bowl, at the same time looking at the camera saying, ‘A bowl of Wheat Flakes lasts me all morning – it gives me protein for muscle-building, energy to burn, and vitamins and minerals for good health. I can’t start the day without my Wheat Flakes.’

  By the time Posie reappeared, Reuben had committed the lines to memory. She escorted him into the room next door – a large, bare room with drapes over the windows and a white backdrop covering one wall. A man was bent over fiddling with a camera on a tripod.

  ‘Simon, this is Reuben Littlejohn,’ Posie said, as if announcing his presence at the Oscars.

  The man stood up and held out his hand. Reuben instantly recognised him as the tall, fair-haired man in the photos in the reception area, shaking hands with the almost rich and famous. He was tall, broad-shouldered and square-jawed. Everything about him was smooth and shiny, from his carefully coiffured hair to his shiny leather shoes – even his trousers and shirt seemed to have a lustre about them. He looked as if he himself belonged in one of those TV ads featuring the perfect family – sitting on the couch with two angelic children on his knee, gazing adoringly at his wife in the pristine kitchen whipping up a gourmet dinner in her skirt and heels.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Reuben,’ he said with an arm-wrenching handshake. ‘I’m always glad to welcome a new face to our books. We’ll do the audition first.’

  He explained the process to Reuben. In a nutshell, he was to be as over-the-top as he could. ‘We can always tone down a performance if we need to, but it’s much harder to ramp it up if it’s dull and lifeless.’

  He positioned Reuben in front of the backdrop, placed a small table behind him and an empty packet of Wheat Flakes on it.

  ‘The table is the pantry. There’s an imaginary table in front of you. You take the packet from the pantry, then pretend to pour Wheat Flakes into a bowl on the table while you’re talking. And don’t forget to smile.’

  Simon adjusted his video camera, counted back from three and yelled, ‘Shoot!’ Reuben concentrated so hard on pouring, talking and smiling simultaneously that he forgot to put any feeling into his lines.

  ‘We’ll do another take,’ Simon said. ‘And this time with feeling!’

  ‘Take two’ was more lively, but Reuben was so engrossed in the feeling that he forgot to smile. Simon sighed and put down the video camera.

  ‘Wheat Flakes are not only good for you, they make you happy! Imagine that box is a hot bird you’re chatting up at the pub and she’s just agreed to go home with you.’

  Ping! A light bulb of enlightenment appeared before Reuben. ‘Take three’ saw him pouring and beaming, and declaring his admiration for Wheat Flakes with the ardour of a Renaissance poet. It wasn’t the box being a hot bird that did it, but the hot bird on the box. How could he not be inspired by Lucy’s angelic face smiling up at him from under a brimming bowl of Wheat Flakes and strawberries, and a jug of milk?

  Posie, who’d been watching from the corner of the room, clapped her hands. ‘Fabulous, Reuben! It makes me want to run out this very minute and buy some Wheat Flakes!’

  ‘You’ll have to restrain yourself,’ Simon said. ‘I need you to book an appointment for me with Hugh.’

  ‘That’s Hugh Jackman,’ Posie told Reuben, then took her cue to exit with a cheerful wave. Simon changed the backdrop to pale blue and took a number of head and shoulder, and full-length shots. By the end of it, Reuben’s eyelid had developed a twitch, his face was aching from smiling and the only angle Simon hadn’t photographed him from was hanging from the drapes.

  ‘Done.’ Simon shook his hand. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

  When? Is that next week or next month? When do I start work? Simon was packing his gear and his manner didn’t invite questions. Reuben left the room. Posie’s office door was open and she called him in. She was nibbling at her lunch – sliced hard-boiled egg on a bed of lettuce and tomato.

  ‘No Wheat Flakes?’ Reuben said.

  ‘Good heavens no, full of carbohydrate.’ She pointed to her plate. ‘This is from Dr De Jong’s high protein, high energy diet. I can lend you the book if you like.’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. I just need to get more exercise. What happens next?’

  ‘We’ll post the photos to you in about a week. We also have a
number of courses available that would really benefit you. There’s introductory modelling – we’ve just started a men’s course – and also Basic Drama and Screen Presentation, which would be fantastic to get you on the right path for TV and film work.’

  ‘They sound interesting,’ Reuben said, ‘but I’m afraid I’m not in a financial position to do any courses at the moment.’

  ‘Oh? I got the impression from your resume that you’d done quite well for yourself.’

  ‘Bad investments.’ He made a gesture of helplessness. ‘Lost all my savings.’

  ‘That’s a pity.’ She wiped her hands on a napkin and picked up a kiwi fruit. Her fingernails pierced the skin and peeled it back. Reuben cringed.

  ‘I’m only allowed one piece of fruit a day, so I make the most of it. I can make a kiwi fruit last half an hour.’

  She took a paring knife and sliced the kiwi fruit into delicate slivers. ‘We do tend to give preference to people who’ve done the courses when we’re hiring, but there’s always the chance that you’ll have just the right look that someone wants. I’ll be straight with you, though – and most agencies won’t tell you this because they just want your money.’

  She leaned forward and pointed the knife at him. ‘Don’t expect to get rich quick in this business. In fact, if you get rich at all, it will be a fluke. It’s a matter of taking whatever work you can get, no matter how mundane, and getting yourself known. And being professional – turning up on time, being courteous. Then you might just have a chance.’

  ‘I appreciate your advice,’ Reuben said. After I’ve paid my money. But still, it wasn’t as if he had any hopes of becoming the next Brad Pitt. Any work would be good, even doing a Wheat Flakes Ad. Or modelling. As he walked out to the street where he’d parked the Barbiemobile, he sucked in his stomach. Tomorrow he’d start jogging. Today, he had to solve the problem of Lucy.

  CHAPTER 9

  Reuben stretched out on the living room couch, his most productive thinking position, reliving for the thousandth time his meeting with Frank in the Edinburgh Arms. He still couldn’t decide if Frank’s threat to take revenge on Lucy was genuine. If half the stories he’d heard in prison about him were true, Frank was more than capable of carrying it out.

  Frank considered himself a big-time criminal, part of Brisbane’s underbelly, although general opinion in prison was that he was a wannabe, trying to muscle in on established territory. It was rumoured that a small-time drug dealer, Edward Theodore, known as Eddie Teddy, who was working for Frank, had had a one-night stand with his ex-wife. As Eddie loitered one night outside a Narcotics Anonymous meeting waiting to do a drug deal, a car mounted the footpath, ran him down and killed him. It was general knowledge that Frank had organised it, although no-one knew why – why seek revenge on account of an ex-wife? Maybe he was still in love with her. Or perhaps he was trying to prove a point – mess with me and you’ll pay the price. The apparent irrationality of his motive made him all the more dangerous.

  It would be foolish not to take the threat seriously. But what to do? He couldn’t stand by and allow Lucy to be maimed or killed, knowing he could have stopped it. Not Lucy, of all the women in the world. If he warned her, she’d undoubtedly report it to her superiors and the police would become involved. Even if he asked her not to report it to the police because it would put his life in danger, he couldn’t be sure she’d take his request seriously. Was it true that Frank had friends in the police or was that just a bluff? There’d been rumours in jail that he had a well-known high-ranking police officer in his pocket, but you couldn’t put much credence on those – Frank may well have started the rumours himself. Even if it was a bluff and Reuben went to the police, they’d start digging around and set up surveillance on Frank and he’d find out, one way or another. Reuben didn’t have a lot of confidence in the ability of police to be discreet in their investigations – he’d witnessed and heard of too many bungles. He had to assume the worst-case scenario – that if he told the police and Frank found out, he would meet the same fate as Eddie Teddy.

  In any case, all he had to take to the police was a verbal threat. He had no idea how Frank planned to carry it out, if he had a plan at all, and no evidence of his intention. Chances were the police would just laugh at him.

  The more he thought about it, the more helpless he felt. There was no solution. What illusion would Mandrake conjure up to scare Frank? A sabre-toothed tiger or white pointer shark about to attack, baring its menacing display of teeth? Or even better, Lucy herself as a vampire: red eyes flashing, blood dripping from her fangs, a ‘return to prison’ warrant sticking out of her pale cleavage. God, even as a vampire she was irresistible.

  ***

  Someone was tugging at his arm. They were trying to save him from the vampire.

  ‘But I want her to bite me!’ Reuben protested. ‘I want to be a vampire too, so we can live happily ever after!’

  ‘Rubie, wake up!’

  He opened his eyes. Carlene’s face swam into focus. She was leaning over him.

  ‘You’re drooling.’

  Reuben sat up and wiped his mouth. ‘Must have been dreaming about you, baby.’

  ‘You’re a smooth-talker, Reuben Littlejohn.’

  She got up, went into the kitchen and turned on the kettle. She was still in her work clothes. It was five-thirty. He’d slept for over three hours.

  ‘That seems to be your default position lately,’ Carlene said.

  ‘I’ve only fallen asleep on the couch twice, I’d hardly call that default. And anyway I’ve been busy preparing myself for stardom.’

  ‘Oh yes, the promotions agency. How did you go?’

  As he predicted, she wasn’t impressed.

  ‘Jesus, Rubie, you’ve just gone and thrown the best part of three hundred dollars down the drain!’

  ‘You don’t know that at all.’

  ‘Yes, I do. A friend of mine registered with one of those agencies, it cost her a small fortune, and they didn’t call her once.’

  ‘Maybe she didn’t stick at it for long enough, or maybe she needed to be more proactive. I’ll be ringing them constantly so they won’t forget me.’

  ‘If you’re lucky, you might get in a crowd scene in an ad for five seconds. That’s hardly a regular, secure income.’

  ‘I’m not looking at it as regular income. I’m just going to see what comes out of it. Meanwhile, I’m still looking for other work.’

  ‘All I can say is, it’s a hell of a lot of money to pay for the possibility that you might get some work.’

  She stalked off to the bedroom.

  As they were getting ready for bed, Carlene said, ‘I wish you’d let Mum and Dad help you. They know a woman who’s a life coach and she does vocational training. She’s pretty expensive, but it would be worth it.’

  ‘Honey, there’s nothing a life coach could tell me that I don’t already know.’

  She was in the ensuite removing her make-up, her eyes two reproachful islands in a sea of cleansing foam.

  ‘How do you know if you’ve never been to one?’

  ‘I know enough about them to know what they talk about.’

  ‘It’s not the same as actually going to one. And I know that if you were willing to go, I could talk Mum and Dad into footing the bill.’

  ‘That’s very generous of them. But I really don’t need one. I’m sure if I keep slogging away things will fall into place.’

  She splashed water on her face and towelled it dry. ‘But that’s the point – things don’t just fall into place. You have to get out there and make them happen.’

  ‘That’s what I’m doing.’ He came up behind her and put his arms around her waist. The thin silk of her nightdress was soft against his skin, hinting of the more alluring softness underneath. ‘And if you tell me to put it out to the universe, I’ll have to deal with you as I see fit.’

  His cock grew hard as he hugged her body against his. She struggled out of his grip. ‘Don’t, I’m
not in the mood.’

  He dropped his arms. ‘So you’re angry at me because I won’t go to a life coach.’

  ‘It’s not just that, you’re so stubborn, you won’t listen to anybody. You think you know it all.’

  ‘That’s not true, I – ’

  ‘I’m tired, I’m not in the mood for an argument.’ She got into bed and burrowed down under the sheets.

  Reuben gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Not in the mood for sex, not in the mood for an argument, you used to be such a fun person.’

  She didn’t reply and in a couple of minutes she was asleep, hunched in a ball with her back to him. Reuben lay awake staring into the darkness. It was the first time she’d rejected his advances. Was it a significant milestone? Did it happen in all marriages? Surely not after two-and-a-half months.

  But at the moment he had a more pressing problem. He wished he’d never set foot in the Edinburgh Arms and that he’d never run into Frank Cornell. Could he pretend he hadn’t, that it was all just a bad dream?

  He saw Lucy lying on the floor of her home, eyes frozen in horror, neck sliced by a deep gash and rivers of blood streaming onto her chest. Or dumped in a dingy alley amongst the industrial bins, as lifeless as an abandoned doll, a gunshot wound to her head. No, damn it, he couldn’t pretend ignorance.

  ***

  When he awoke, he felt as if he’d been churning round all night in a giant washing machine. But at least he’d come to a decision.

  ‘What are you doing today, honey?’ Carlene asked. She was back to her normal self, rifling through her wardrobe for the hundredth time as she tried to decide what to wear to work.

  ‘Just the usual – slay a few dragons, ravish a few maidens, then after breakfast I’ll do the really exciting stuff.’