by June Whyte
He retrieved the bottle and made a great production of tucking it back inside his jacket. “You don’t wanna know. Secret men’s business.”
I snorted. “Fell off the back of a truck, more like.”
His answer was a slow grin that highlighted his bad boy persona and tugged at my pouting bottom lip until I found myself grinning too. “Judging by the taste, it was a Hydrochloric Acid truck.”
Tanya scuttled back into the room. “Hey, come on you two, enough of the pleasantries. Time for explanations.” She dragged a chair across the floor and set it up beside Ben. “Okay, Kat. What’s the story? By the look on your face when I opened the door, you’ve either found another dead body or come close to becoming one yourself.”
The broken statue in my pocket dug into my hip, wrenching me away from the warmth and comfort of Tanya’s kitchen and reminding me of the threat that wouldn’t go away. I pulled the little boxer dog from its hiding place and let him rest on the palm of my hand.
“I found this in my bedroom tonight.”
“And…?” Lines furrowed between Ben’s eyes.
“I didn’t break its ears off.”
The furrows between Ben’s eyes deepened. “If you didn’t break it—who did? Tater?”
I shook my head.
His voice became steely. “Was someone in your house when you arrived home from the track?”
Oh God…I had to divulge the threatening phone call, otherwise how could I tell them the killer had broken into my bedroom again? But what if my mystery caller found out? What if he came after Tanya and Ben? What if he hurt them?
“Kat, you’re not making sense.”
I sniffed, wiped at my nose with the sleeve of my jumper. No way could I get through this alone. Sleuthing and being threatened by a madman seemed easy, all in a day’s work, for Nancy Drew and Stephanie Plum—but that was fiction—this was for real. I took a deep breath and let it out in one long drawn-out puff. “Whoever killed Matt came back tonight and broke off the statue’s ears to show how easily he could get to me.”
“What?”
By the time I’d filled them in, Tanya’s wall clock chimed midnight. I hefted the quilt up around my shoulders and snuggled deeper.
“And you have no idea who it was on the phone?” Tanya squashed herself into the armchair beside me.
I shrugged. “Could have been anyone. The postman, the guy who runs the video shop. For all I know, it could have even been our local politician. He covered his mouth with a thick scarf or handkerchief so I wouldn’t recognize his voice.”
“Don’t worry,” crooned Tanya, snuggling closer. “We’ll work around that hurdle. All we have to do is go over what we already know and then make plans.” She shot Ben a questioning frown. “Um...what do we already know, Ben?”
Ben used one finger to turn my head to face him. “Kat, listen. If that bastard came back tonight it means he had a key cut.”
Nodding agreement, I shivered under the quilt.
“So get your locks changed, okay?”
“I’ll ring a locksmith first thing in the morning.”
“Do that.” Ben’s fingers slid slowly off my face as he let go and leaned back in his chair. “Now, if we knew what the devil Matt Turner was up to, maybe we’d have a motive for why he got himself killed.”
I thought about the one and only night I’d let Matt talk me into going on a date. We’d ended up at the Two Wells pub for a meal, but instead of studying me, he’d spent the night studying the TAB betting fluctuations and watching the races on Sky Channel.
“Wedo know Matt was a mad punter,” I said. “And he could give you the breeding and likely odds of any greyhound racing at any meeting held anywhere in Australia.”
“That was our Matt,” Ben agreed. “So whoever’s behind this is probably mixed up with gambling. There’s been some weird betting plunges at the track over the last couple of months. You know, short-priced favorites going down, long-shots getting up. What if the killer is the mastermind? What if Matt double-crossed him?” Ben, eyes shining, seemed carried away with his own theories. “What if, on the night Matt was killed, his dog, Queen of Egypt, was supposed to lose? What if Matt thought, stuff you mate, and refused to give his dog a go-slow tablet like he’d been ordered?”
Tanya, a slight crease between her eyes, shook her head. “Bit drastic, don’t you think? If everyone grabbed a bloody great kitchen knife whenever they lost money at the track and went around killing owners and trainers, there’d be no race meetings.” She paused, playing with a loose thread on the corner of the quilt. “Kat, shouldn’t we go to the police about the freaky guy breaking into your house again?”
“I can’t. They wouldn’t believe me. Probably reckon I made it up to take the heat off myself. And if the murderer found out I’d been to the police…” Cold shivers made me snuggle deeper under the quilt. “He’d come back and—”
Ben reached out, caught my hand and squeezed. “For now, we keep it between ourselves. But if he threatens you again, Kat, we go to the police and demand they give you protection. This guy is dead crazy.”
I nodded. The warmth of Ben’s hand the only thing keeping me sane. “Thanks, guys. I knew I could count on you.”
“I’m all for finding this wacko and kicking his scrawny butt up through his nose,” growled Tanya, burrowing closer.
I might be soft in the head but I had great friends. “What say I go to Matt’s house tomorrow and pick up the rest of his dogs?” I suggested. “While I’m there, I could snoop around. Casual like. Maybe even find a way inside the house to see if I can dig up any clues.”
“Make it in the afternoon and I’ll meet you there,” Ben offered.
“Me too,” put in Tanya, her voice all gung-ho and enthusiastic. And then she tilted her head and frowned. “What sort of clues would we be looking for?”
“Come on Tanya, you’ve watchedCSI on television,” said Ben.
“Never. It’s on the same time asSurvivor.”
“Okay, here’s what we do. We check to see if Matt’s conveniently left the killer’s phone number on a pad beside his phone. Or a betting ticket in one of his pockets telling us he’d bet thousands on some long-priced dog that won. Or maybe he wrote everything down in a diary. Wouldn’t that be a scoop? We could take the proof straight to the cops.” He shifted in his seat and leaned forward, dark eyes fastened on mine. “Think hard, Kat, when the killer spoke to you on the phone, what exactly did he say about Matt?”
“Not much—just that Turner knew the consequences and he should have followed orders.” At the time I was more worried about the next bit—the bit that went,I’m sure you won’t make the same mistake….”
“Okay. So, we keep our ears open at the dog track. Find out who’s been placing hefty bets on long-priced dogs that unexpectedly win. Next question—who do we know that’s likely to be running a betting scam?”
“What about one of the bookies?” I lifted one shoulder. “They’re the guys who drive BMWs while we rattle around in our fifteen-year-old bombs.”
“Possibly…but since the TAB took over, bookies aren’t copping it so sweet. Although, come to think of it, Big Mick Harrison’s been on a winning streak. Did you see the grin he sported when Matt’s dog, Cleo, won the last race at Gawler—as wide as the bloody City Centre..”
Tanya nodded in agreement.
“What about a trainer? Or a steward?” I said thinking of Barney the starting-box steward. He’d seemed royally pissed off when Lucky stayed in the boxes.
“Or even an owner,” Ben added then gave me a hard look. “What about Peter Manning? He’s always throwing money around.”
“You’re sliding down the wrong pole there, Ben. Tire Man Pete might be a gambler, but his dogs are always out to win.”
A tinny rendition of Three Blind Mice reverberated from the mobile stuck in the top of my jeans. Instantly my heart stopped beating, yelled for-fuck’s-sake-ease-up-I’m-getting-tired-of-all-this-scary-crap before crashing a
round in my chest like an aggressive drunk. I threw aside the quilt and stared down at my phone. “What if that’s the killer?”
Ben casually plucked my singing cell from my waistband and handed it to me. “Matt’s killer doesn’t know your mobile number. If he did, he wouldn’t have rung you on your home phone earlier.”
Still apprehensive, I pressed OK and placed the phone to my ear.
“Hi Kat, sorry to ring so late but—”
“Peter?” I glanced at Tanya and Ben. Was Peter Manning psychic? Did he know we’d just been bad-mouthing him?
Tanya and Ben leaned closer, hanging on my every word.
“Oh, good, you’re still up,” Peter went on like a train coming out of a station. “Saves me leaving a message. Thatgreyhound I told you about, Big Mistake,he’s due to arrive at ten tomorrow morning—or should I say—this morning. His ex-trainer rang me a half-hour ago. Reckons the dog suffers from claustrophobia and can’t be left too long in a crate. I’m flat out all morning at the tire warehouse so is there any chance you can pick him up from the airport?”
“No worries, Pete.”
“Great. He’ll be on Virgin Blue, Flight 562 from Melbourne, due in at 10 a.m.” There was a slight pause before he continued, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “And Kat, while I have you on the phone…I lost a bundle on Lucky tonight and I’ve forked over a substantial amount of money for this new dog for you to train…so…any way Shifty Sue will win a heat of the John Gray Memorial on Thursday night?”
“Jesus, Peter, there you go again—expecting miracles from me. How am I supposed to guarantee your dog will win? It’s not like asking for a warranty on a used car, is it?”
His voice took on a chilly edge. “No need to get snarky. I only rang to see if you could collect the dog from the airport.”
When he hung up I shoved the mobile back into my jeans, shook my head and gazed into four curious eyes.
“Well?” asked Ben.
“Peter wants his dog to win on Thursday night.”
“Meaning?”
“Not sure.”
Ben’s lips tightened. “Well, I reckon it’s high time we checked up on Tire Man Pete. See what he’s up to when he’s not selling tires.”
8
No wonder Peter was worried his new dogBig Mistake might burst from his cage. When I barreled into the cargo shed at Adelaide airport twenty minutes after the plane landed, I was greeted by the biggest greyhound I’d ever seen. And the ugliest. Feet splayed like a claw-bath, one ear up, the other drooping. And as for the Roman nose…I bet his mother even winced when she spotted that nose sliding from her womb.
“G’day, Lofty,” I said, reading his nickname on the name tag attached to the door of his shipping crate. Immediately, the dog’skangaroo tail thumped against the wire, threatening to send the crate into orbit. His cavernous mouth opened revealing a wet, never-ending tongue and teeth the size of tombstones.
The freight attendant, grinning broadly, passed a document across the counter for me to sign. “Figure you might need a horse trailer to transport that one.”
“I was thinking maybe I should hitch him to the car. Let him pull me home,” I said and swung the door of the wire crate open. Big mistake. Planting a front paw on each shoulder, the excited dog proceeded to give me a sponge bath, seeking out the infinitesimal layers of dirt up my nose and deep inside my ears.
“Down, Lofty!” I told him, reaching around the tree-trunk neck to fasten a lead to his collar, all the time dodging that fat, slurping tongue.
When all four paws were back on the ground, I patted the big head and led the dog over to the station wagon. “Okay, in you go. Your carriage awaits you, big boy,” I said, making with the cheery voice and encouraging hand gestures. “We can’t hang around at the airport all day. I have plans to spy on your new owner.”
Not quite ready to exchange one set of transport for another, Lofty dragged me to a nearby bush. And then, with a look of sheer ecstasy plastered on his face, he proceeded to rain on each and every leaf until I started to worry about the bush’s welfare.
Bathroom duties attended to, the dog shook himself, scratched the dry airport dirt up over his back, then ambled toward to the car. One bound and he was inside examining his new mobile quarters. Evidently satisfied with the comfort of the thick blue mattress, he turned in three tight circles then settled down, his dinosaur head resting on powerful paws. I could see two large soft brown eyes watching me as I slid in behind the wheel.
After half an hour’s driving through bumper-to-bumper traffic on the inner-city roads, it was a relief to hit the quieter Port Wakefield Road. Here, I could cruise at 80ks/hr, relax and attempt to calm my chaotic thoughts.
Since waking beside Matt’s lifeless body, my thoughts had been like a piece of knitting caught on a barbed wire fence, knotted, snarled and so out of whack with reality that it would take a miracle to untangle them. My preferred miracle would be the killer slipping on his wet bathroom floor and breaking his neck. Of course the alternative solution wasn’t quite so straightforward. It involved me as an amateur sleuth, tracking down and pursuing clues until I discovered the killer’s identity.
As I drove past Globe Raceway,I slowed down. This was South Australia’s new multimillion dollar multifunction complex where both the greyhound and harness racing codes shared state-of-the-art facilities. In fact, Globe Raceway was the best thing to happen to greyhound and harness racing in our state since the introduction of TAB and Sky Channel.
From the roadway, I could see several harness horses jogging around a sandy outside training track while greyhounds, attached to their handlers by long leads, swum in a large circular pool nearby.
Once past, I forced my mind back to the present problem.
“Thing is…I’m in a bit of a sticky situation here,” I told my silent travelling companion. “A friend of mine got himself killed last night and because he happened to be in my bed at the time—the authorities are inferring I might have had something to do with it.”
Lofty gave a snort and I heard him shifting his bulk into a more comfortable position on the mattress behind me.
“You’re right. Ridiculous idea. So it’smy job to find out who did murder Matt.”
Ice settled in my chest, as once again, I visualized myself asleep beside Matt. How close had I come to waking with a rough hand against my mouth and the pointy end of a knife slipping quietly and fatally into one of my main organs? Thank God the dogs woke me. And what if I’d come back into the room sooner and interrupted the killer in mid-kill?
Don’t go there!
I inhaled deeply, held for ten and let all the nasty toxic thoughts filter out as I slowly exhaled. Feeling decidedly calmer, I continued to fill Lofty in on the story so far.
Further along Port Wakefield Road, a service station, advertising gas, hot food-to-go and ATM facilities came into view. I drove straight past. Three gaslights shone under the dash, my stomach wielded an out-of-order sign and my shaky bank balance couldn’t take any spur of the moment withdrawals.
“So, Lofty,” I said to my new best friend, “you can see why it’s imperative I track down the real murderer. How else can I get the police off my back? Anyway, sleuthing can’t be all that difficult. I’ve read books where frail old ladies and hairy guys with the IQ of an amoeba hit paydirt. Me…I figure catching the crook is just a process of elimination.” I eased back on the accelerator as my speed hit 100ks an hour. “Now, my mate, Ben, who I’d have sex with in a heartbeat if he’d only give me the nod, but that’s another story, reckons whoever killed Matt has to be involved in some sort of betting scam. Ben says if we go after the big gamblers with a shovel we might dig up our killer. Get what mean?”
Lofty whined in his sleep.
“Now we all know your new owner, Tire Man Pete, would place a bet on two mosquitoes buzzing over a naked arm, which is why we plan to spy on him. Set up surveillance outside his warehouse. See if we can trick him into exposing whether he’s part of
the skullduggery going on at the track.”
When Lofty’s snores came close to lifting the roof of the station wagon, I shook my head. What the hell was I doing discussing strategies with a dog? Dogs couldn’t keep up. Didn’t offer much in the way of comments or suggestions either. Might be time I invested in a parrot. At least a parrot could talk back.
Fifteen minutes later I drove past the sign, McKinley’s Greyhound Kennels,and parked my station wagon next to the red brick kennel-house. I could see Jake, my dude-helper, elbows deep in soap suds out the front. He was leaning over a bathtub shampooing Lucky. I guess he wanted her to smell nice now she’d changed her tag from racing dog to house pet.
“Everything okay here, Jake?” I slithered out of the driver’s seat and opened the rear door for Lofty to heave himself onto the ground.
Hearing my voice, Lucky whisked her tail in the suds like an egg-beater, sprinkling white soapy flecks across Jake’s black, dreadlocked hair. Made me think of coconut on licorice sticks.
Jake wiped at his eyes before reaching for a bucket of fresh rinsing water. “Yeah, fine, dude. A couple of plainclothes guys dropped in half-hour ago, but I acted dumb. They wanted to know where you were and when you’d be back.”
“Damn,” I grumped as I let Lofty into a nearby emptying yard to relieve himself. “What’ll I do if they’re parked up the road waiting for me? I can’t let the police follow me to Manning’s warehouse.”
“It’s okay dude, they cruised off back to the station after I told ’em you’d be gone all day. I said you had a couple of banks to rob and wouldn’t be back till dark.”
“You’re a whacko, Jake.”
“What’s, like, going down at Manning’s warehouse you don’t want the cops to know about?”
“For your own safety the less you know the better. Let’s just say I’m starting a new career—amateur detective.”
“You?” He looked skeptical. “Hey, man, most days you can’t, like, find your own car keys.”
I gave Jake my most supercilious eagle-eyed glare. The one that involves narrowed eyes and flared nostrils. “Being chief suspect in a murder enquiry tends to make a person more perceptive.” I watched him lift Lucky from the bathtub and wrap her in a thick bath towel. “So, if I’m gone for awhile, will you be okay on your own?”