by June Whyte
“Hey, Kat, I was just telling Sean here that our boy, Clark, is going to win today.” Marjory enveloped me in a bear hug that proved water-aerobics for seniors was an excellent idea for keeping elderly muscles strong. “Am I right?”
“You betcha,” I replied, returning Marjory’s hug. “So you’d better put a couple of dollars on him.”
“Couple of dollars?” teased Bob, kissing me on the cheek. “My pockets are bulging with money. Every resident at the Home gave me a fistful of dollars to put on our boy today. If he loses, there’ll be no money for pokies or antacid tablets for the next month.”
“Don’t listen to him, Kat.” Marjory laughed. “They’re so damn miserly Bob had to shame them into parting with a dollar each.”
I could see Sean edging away so placed one hand on his arm to stop him. “Sorry to hear about your Dad, Sean. They tell me he’s in hospital.”
“Yeah.” Sean gazed down at his feet.
“Is he going to be okay?”
He looked up and I got my answer. His eyes were bleak and his face drawn. “The doctors have scheduled a bypass operation for tomorrow.”
“Your dad’s tough, Sean, he’ll bounce back.”
“Kat’s right,” agreed Bob, slapping Sean on the back. “No need to worry, lad. A bypass op is a piece of cake these days. I had a triple bypass two years ago and look at me now. Good as new. I even won the fifty meter sprint at the Master’s Games last month.”
“Don’t boast, Robert,” said Marjory, digging her husband in the ribs and pursing her lips. “You were the only entry in the over-eighty event and I swear it took you five minutes to reach the finishing tape.”
“Won’t let a bloke have a moment of glory, will you, woman?” Bob flashed his toothless smile at her before gently taking his wife’s arm. “Come on Marj, Clark’s in the first race so we’d better get our bets on and find a good possie to watch him. See you in the winner’s circle, Kat.”
As they shuffled off, laughing and teasing each other, I turned to Sean. Somehow Art’s youngest son had survived his father’s tough upbringing and, unlike his two older brothers, was the reverse of his bullying father. A real sweetie, he’d married a lovely girl and produced a gaggle of gorgeous dark-haired kids with the same happy nature and generous smiles as their parents.
“I amsorry about your dad, Sean,” I said keeping my voice low as a couple of trainers sauntered past, eyes curiously watching us. “I know he can be a pain in the butt at times, but he’s straight as a shot from a gun. No way would he drug his dogs.”
“Thanks, Kat. Appreciate that. Of course Pa’s innocent but the dogdid test positive to caffeine in the swab.”
“Does your dad have any theories?”
“Not really. But he did say some lowlife rang him a couple of days before the race, insisted he drug Pitachi Gambler to win and threatened to cause Dad trouble if he refused.”
“I can imagine where your dad told him to shove that threat.”
“Yeah. And exactly how far up.” Sean wrinkled his nose. “Then after the dog romped home at good odds and the swab proved positive, Pa swore he’d find out who stitched him up. Said when he did he’d run them over with his tractor. And he would too. In fact, when he found Big Mick, the bookie, hanging around the kennels the day after the phone call he got suspicious. Chased him off with a pitchfork.”
“Mick Harrison? What was he doing there?”
“Innocent really. Turns out Mick was on his way to visit his grandmother at some nursing home and ran out of petrol. Thought Pa might have some to spare.”
“Did your father mention any of this to the stewards?”
“I’m not sure, Kat. See the day of the enquiry, Pa was so angry about being accused of doping his dog, he wasn’t rational. I offered to go to the meeting with him, but that made him even more upset. Said he was quite capable of telling those weak-kneed pansy stewards what he thought of them without any help from me.”
“Typical.” Probably told them to go home and scrub the makeup off their wives’ faces instead of wasting time harassing him.
“Anyway,” Sean went on, shaking his head. “Pa got himself so worked up at the enquiry he collapsed. They had to call an ambulance.”
“Don’t suppose your dad has any idea who threatened him on the phone?”
“Hell, no, if he did they’d be covered in tractor tire treads by now. The mystery caller used a public telephone and covered the handset with a handkerchief. Dad couldn’t recognize the voice at all.”
“Hmm…sounds like the same person who killed Matt Turner.” I quickly filled Sean in on the phone call I’d received after finding Matt’s body, swearing him to secrecy. “And if it washim—we’re closing in.”
“Closing in?”
“Yes. I happen to be in possession of a clue that just might point to this scumbag’s identity.”
“What clue?”
“Sorry, I can’t tell you, Sean,” I answered, shaking my head. “The less you know, the safer you and your family will be. Just hang in there, look after your dad and if this mystery caller rings again, let me know. Meanwhile…when you visit that old fossil in hospital, tell him I said he’s a lazy slob. While he’s in bed flirting with the nurses I’m left to do all the detective work.”
Momentarily Sean’s eyes lost their anxiety. “Thanks, Kat. I’m sure Pa will appreciate that.”
I gave his arm a quick squeeze before excusing myself. The steward on the gate was calling for all trainers with dogs engaged in the first race to report to the kennel-house.
So—time to find out if Clark was good enough to be a Derby prospect.
19
Should I have worn a dress instead of jeans? Selected a top that displayed more cleavage? Did my new slut-red lipstick make me look cheap?
It was ten fifteen the following morning and Ben was due to pick me up any minute. Posing in front of the full-length mirror in the bathroom, I unscrewed the lid of a small heart-shaped bottle of perfume called Grrr, dabbed a couple of drops behind both ears and the pulse point on my wrists. According to the label, the contents were guaranteed to drive any man crazy. With Ben in mind, I’d purchased three vials at The Luv Bug while waiting for Tanya to knock off work last week.
Okay, our planned outing wasn’t what you’d call a real date. We were only driving to Salisbury, a largish town about half an hour away, to check Matt’s storage deposit box. Not what you’d call a romantic dinner for two. But hey, I figured a girl had to grab whatever opportunity was thrown at her and run with it.
So...I’d washed my hair with coconut shampoo and brushed every strand until it shone. I’d pulled on a newish pair of hipster jeans, a silky plum-colored long-sleeved top and even replaced my sneakers with gorgeous high-heeled suede knee-high boots. In fact, when I took a second look at myself in the mirror, I didn’t think I looked half bad. Now, if only Blind Benny could remove his blinkers long enough to get an eyeful, my preparations this morning might not go unrewarded.
Ben’s noisy Kombi van belched its way down the driveway and stuttered to a stop. I shook my head. If he didn’t get that exhaust fixed soon he’d end up with a defect sticker. At the moment, that was the least of my worries, so grabbing my mobile, I dropped it into my bag and waltzed through the front doorway, ready to present myself for inspection.
Okay…here I am Lover-Boy. Take me. I’m all yours.
“Hey,” said Blind Benny, registering my presence with a quick nod of his head before burying said head under the dashboard to fiddle with the car radio.
I gave a weary Hey in return and trudged towards my front gate. What was I expecting—a slow-motion love scene from Titanic?
“Good win by Clark yesterday,” Ben yelled, nosing the car out onto the bitumen road and waiting for me to close the gate behind us. “The little bugger scampered too. 29.90. Not bad running time for a youngster.”
I locked the gate and climbed into the car. “Marjory and Bob were over the moon with his win.” I shouted
to be heard over the noise as Ben put the van into drive and we roared off down the road. “You’d have thought Clark had won the Melbourne Cup.” Smiling, I remembered the little dance the two seniors had performed when their dog went past the post five lengths ahead of the rest of the field. “And when Marjory rang me last night, she said the residents of the Home watched the replay of the race twenty times before the Chief of Staff could get them out of the recreation room and off to bed.”
“Well, let’s hope Clark draws box one in the semifinals next week.”
I laughed. “And if he wins and gets a run in the Derby final, Globe Raceway will need to install extra handicapped spaces for the twenty-two seniors who’ll be hitting the trackto cheer him on.”
Ben turned off Strangways Terrace into Brother Road and drove toward the storage depot. Would the contents of Matt’s storage box reveal who we were up against? We badly needed a hot tip at this stage of our investigation. Hot enough to smoke out a killer.
“Did you hear what happened to Art Basset?”
“Yeah, bloody ridiculous.” Ben looked up and down the road, checking for an empty parking space. “Anyone with half a brain would know Basset wouldn’t dope his dogs.”
“I was talking to his son, Sean, and he’s worried sick. The hospital says Art needs a bypass operation.” I shivered as I thought of Art being sliced open and doctors snipping away inside his chest.
“Basset’s temper has always been his downfall.”
“You know, if Art dies I’d class his death as another notch in the murderer’s belt. Sean says his father got a call from our heavy breather two nights before the race demanding he hit up Pitachi Gambler.”
“I can imagine where Art told him to go.”
I shivered as prickles of dread crept across my skin. “Yeah, but that didn’t make any difference, did it? Someone still got to his dog and now Art’s in hospital.”
Ben’s large work-calloused hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I’m ahead of you, mate.” He flicked a quick look in my direction as he angled into a vacant park. “Which means you’ll need to double-check your security system in the kennels until this is over. And do the same with your house. Okay?”
“You’ve got it.” My mind drifted back to my last conversation with Sean. “Another thing, Sean said his Dad disturbed Big Mick, the bookie, mooching around his place the day after the phone call. Bit of a skanky excuse too. Reckons he ran out of petrol and was coming to see if Art could help him out.”
“It’s a wonder he escaped in one piece. Art hates his guts.”
I pictured the scene and let out a laugh. “I believe there was a pitchfork involved and not a drop of petrol changed hands.”
By now we were parked in front of No. 73 Brother Road. The long red brick building reminded me of a prison. However, according to a sign out the front, the company proclaimed itself to be a high-tech facility catering for everything: ‘…from your smallest valuable to a houseful of furniture.’
The offices near the gate were dwarfed by close to fifty or sixty large red brick garage type buildings, all with roller-doors secured by several locks and bolts. Without the appropriate key, I imagined a thief would need explosives to break in.
“Come on, mate, let’s get this show on the road.” Ben slipped his arm through mine and led me towards the main office. “Take note. You’re about to witness a demonstration that will knock those fancy boots clean off your feet.”
Aha. Progress. He may not have noticed my body but at least he’d noticed my boots.
“And what demonstration would that be—mate?”
“The Master at work.”
There were two women behind the front desk. One, a film star look-alike in her early twenties, curves all in the right places, long straight blonde hair that swayed sensuously when she moved and bright red lipstick that looked as though it had been applied with a shovel. The other was a bespectacled middle-aged woman shaped like a pear, no makeup, dull mousy hair done up in a bun so tight it made her forehead resemble plastic.
Ben zeroed straight in on the film star look-alike. Of course.
“Hellooo,” he yodeled, eyes sparkling with evident appreciation. “Have we come to the right place here? I thought this was a storage depot—not a film studio.” He smiled at the younger woman and then put on this corny, wide-eyed, oh-looky-hereexpression. “Hey, you’re not Madonna’s twin sister are you?”
What a ham. I could barely stop myself from sticking my finger down my throat and emitting vomit noises.
The Madonna wannabe giggled into one perfectly manicured hand, every finger topped with inch long red talons. “No, I’m Scarlett.”
“Scaaaarlett.” Ben rolled the word around on his tongue like it was a fine vintage wine. “As in, Gone with the Wind?”
“Mummy jus adored that movie.”
Oh God…
Ben rested both elbows on the polished counter and leaned closer. Another inch or two and he’d be near enough to lock lips with the woman. In fact, the sight of this potential intimacy had me itching to pucker up and insert my own slut-red lips between them.
“We’re here to examine Matt Turner’s storage box,” I blurted, unable to stand the sickening performance any longer.
The boss lady at the other end of the counter looked up, suddenly alert. She peered down her hooked nose at the scene being enacted in front of her and then cleared her throat.
“Scarlett, they’re calling for someone at storage area number 26. Could you see what they want, please?”
After glaring daggers of accusation at me, Ben turned to the other woman. “Excuse me, ma’am, but Miss Scarlett is busy. She’s attending to us.”
As though he were invisible, the dragon lady quirked her lips a fraction, just enough to send Scarlett a caricature of a smile. “Number 26 please, dear. Now, hurry along, it goes against company policy to keep customers waiting.”
Ben’s eyes glazed over as he watched Gone with the Wind’s namesake mince her way towards the door on her red strappy high heels. Her hot red dress so tight it caused her perky little bottom to wiggle with every step. But before he could make a move to follow this vision of perfection, I grabbed the tail of his flannel shirt in a death grip and held on.
“Hmmph!” The dragon lady threw Ben a poisonous,all-men-are-assholes glare, before dropping her head and continuing to bang away on her keyboard.
I blinked in confusion. What happened to company policy? If we weren’t potential customers—what were we? Secondary characters in a novel?
Giving up, I gave Ben a nudge to remind him of the purpose of our visit. Earth to Ben...Earth to Ben. When he didn’t respond, I nudged harder—almost dislocating my elbow in an attempt to get him back on track.
Finally, he shook his head as though dislodging whatever erotic thoughts had gathered for a party and slowly turned to focus on Scarlett’s substitute. The horror in his eyes indicated he considered the substitute defective. His jaw tightened and he rolled both shoulders, ready to continue his sweet-talk demonstration.
After all—this was Benjamin Taylor and the dragon lady wasfemale.
“Hello there,” he drawled cranking out his I’m-Mr-Wonderful-and-there’s-no-way-you-can-resist-me smile.
The toxic glare she hurled his way could have annihilated a plague of cockroaches. Yet it hardly made a dent on Mr. Wonderful’s ego.
I smothered a grin. Could my mate finally have met his match?
Still smothering a grin, I flipped Matt’s half burnt bill onto the counter. “We’re here to pay an account and check the contents of a storage box.”
The woman completed whatever it was on her computer that was more important than attending to customers, and then regarded me through her wire frames, small grey eyes frosty, a scowl set in concrete above her hooked nose. “And you are?”
I took a small step away from the counter and silently passed the baton back to Sweet Talk.
Clearing his throat, Ben began what looked like, t
o me, an impersonation of a bull-frog. Puffed chest, head high, jaw thrust forward to show off his sculpted chin. I almost expected to hear a deep ribbett…ribbettcoming from deep in his throat. Instead, he smiled at his target and crooned, “Isn’t it a lovely morning, Miss—”
“Ms.,” she corrected and the temperature in the room dropped another twenty degrees. “Ms. Stratton. As you can see by the plaque on the counter.”
Ben blinked. “Um…well, Ms. Stratton, as my friend, Kat explained, we have an overdue account we’d like to pay.”
“Identification?”
Ben’s smile sagged at the edges. “Identification?”
“Naturally. We always require identification from our clients.”
Ben fumbled in his back pocket, came out with a wallet and placed his driver’s license on the counter.
The dragon lady let loose another blistering scowl. If Ben was bread he’d now be toast. “This says, Benjamin Elijah Taylor. The name on the account is Matthew Turner.”
“Elijah? And here was me thinking your middle name was Sweet Talk,” I murmured, giving Ben another dig in the ribs. By the end of the day he’d have a bunch of bruises under his shirt.
Noting Ben’s slightly dazed expression, I jumped in, suede boots and all, in an effort to save any further embarrassment. “Ms. Stratton, allow me to explain. Matthew Turner is my cousin. He can’t get here today because he’s—well, he’s sort of indisposed.” I crossed my fingers tightly behind my back. “Anyway, he asked me to pay his account and check his storage box.”
“Identification?”
Geez…what was it with this woman and her phobia for ID? A person she trusted must have let her down badly in her dark and dismal past by pretending to be someone they weren’t.
And we were copping the back-wash.
I handed Ms. Stratton my trainer’s license. At least that had a slightly better photo than the unsmiling chinless thug displayed on my driver’s license. I hate the way motor-vehicle department’s photographers always wait until I’m thinking black thoughts, feeling impatient, or just plain glaring at some creep in the queue who’s been ogling my boobs for the last ten minutes, before taking the photo.