First Among Equals

by Katherine Hayton

  Emily and Crystal introduced themselves and if Mabel recognised their names, she gave no sign.

  “I got into a bit of a feud with the woman next door, I’m ashamed to say,” she said while filling up the kettle and popping it on to boil. “When Cynthia first turned up, she was like a breath of fresh air for me and my boy.” She gave a long sigh. “It didn’t stay that way though.”

  “Did she say something mean?” Emily asked, thinking she’d probably done that at least once a day. “I heard she could have quite a rough edge to her tongue.”

  “My son died.” Mabel busied herself pouring the boiled water into a teapot and getting cups out of an overhead cupboard. “It was a dreadful time. One day, he was complaining about a big bruise on his leg and feeling tired, the next he was in a hospital bed with leukaemia. He never came back out.”

  “How dreadful,” Emily said while Crystal offered up tearful condolences. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks. You’d think after twelve years, I’d be over it, but it still hurts just the same.”

  Emily looked out through the dining-room window to where the Pettigrew’s house was visible over a wooden fence. “Was your son about the same age as Gregory?”

  “Yes. Those boys loved to play together.”

  Mabel poured the tea and sat with them. For a long while, nobody spoke. Emily didn’t want to stick her foot in her mouth with a tactless query and Crystal stared dreamily into the middle distance, lost in her own thoughts.

  Even the ghost sat silent and sullen on the edge of the sofa.

  “My Tommy loved Magnolia trees,” Mabel said suddenly, the words appearing out of nowhere.

  Emily frowned, wondering where the woman was headed.

  “When he died, I got a tree to plant in his memory. It sat up near the gate in the fence where the boys used to duck through to play with each other.”

  Crystal shook herself out of her reverie, glancing over to Mabel. “I didn’t see a tree when we came past.”

  “It’s gone now.” The woman gave another long sigh and behind them, Mrs Pettigrew gave a strangled cry. “It grew big and strong. The flowers were glorious each year. I loved those huge petals. Some days, I’d sit out there in its shade and think of Tommy and how much he would’ve loved it, too.”

  “What happened?” Emily asked, unable to resist a quick look over her shoulder at Mrs Pettigrew. The ghost’s expression was sullen, her shoulders curling in, so she appeared twenty years more than her age.

  “She poisoned my tree.” Mabel’s voice caught, and Emily glanced away as the woman struggled to keep her poise. “The petals all fell, almost overnight, and the leaves turned yellow. When I got a professional gardener in to examine it, he said someone had poured petrol over the roots.”

  “It moulted over the fence for years,” Mrs Pettigrew said in a much smaller voice than usual. “I must’ve asked her a hundred times to trim it back. Those petals smelled like rotten meat when they fell in our back yard.”

  “I’m not usually the sentimental sort,” Mabel said, rubbing her eye with a knuckle. “But on that day, it felt like Tommy had been taken away from me all over again. I couldn’t believe she’d done something so awful but when I confronted her gardener, Abraham, he told me the truth.”

  “He’d poisoned the tree on her behalf?” Emily asked, wanting to be sure of the facts before she judged Mrs Pettigrew. She needed to be certain because there was a lot of judgment heading her way.

  Mabel nodded. “When I explained, he tried his hardest to help revive the tree.” She shook her head sadly. “But there was nothing that could be done. The petrol had been absorbed up through its roots a few weeks before the petals began falling. By the time I noticed anything wrong, it was far too late.”

  “I didn’t know,” Mrs Pettigrew said, her voice full of misery. “Until Abraham stormed in to tell me off and threaten to quit, I just thought it was a stupid plant she couldn’t be bothered to keep in check. She was the one who stopped talking to me, you know. Greg and I missed Tommy as well, but Mabel just acted like we didn’t even exist.”

  “I think that’s the worst thing I’ve heard about Cynthia, so far,” Emily said, telling the full truth. “Even if she didn’t know about the connection to Tommy, to be so petty shows her up as a shallow, unthoughtful woman.”

  “Her husband Nathaniel just encouraged her,” Mabel said, apparently deciding to let loose of all the venom at once. “Every time she encountered an issue, he always leapt to her defence. When I complained to him about the tree, he told me it was a trivial squabble that didn’t affect him.”

  “He struck me as a very hands-off husband and father,” Emily agreed. “When I was collecting all the boxes of goods belonging to his dead wife, he didn’t once bother to come down and see me.”

  “As if that’s the standard for being a good husband,” Mrs Pettigrew snarled. “Making small talk with some woman from the charity shop.”

  “I wasn’t at all surprised to hear around town about his affair,” Mabel said in a tone of agreement. “Though, since she was carrying on with Abraham behind his back, Cynthia could hardly complain.”

  “It’s all lies and conjecture,” Mrs Pettigrew exclaimed as they took leave of Mabel’s company. “Just because I flirted with a handsome employee doesn’t mean I did anything else. I’m sure Nathaniel was no more fooling around on me than I was on him.”

  Emily felt the first pang of sympathy for the ghost as she made the claim. She imagined the fact they were divorcing did little to soften the blow.

  “Did your ghost friend tell you any of this?” Crystal asked as soon as they climbed back into the car. “It seems she had a penchant for making enemies.”

  “As if everyone else in this township is somehow beyond reproach,” the ghost said in a heated tone. “If you only ever listen to one side, of course, it makes a person sound bad.”

  “I think she knows her part in the killing of the tree was unforgivable,” Emily said, staring straight into the ghost’s eyes until Mrs Pettigrew dropped her gaze. “But she denies any inappropriate involvement with the gardener or knowledge of her husband having an affair.”

  “Though, I suppose just because she didn’t know about it, doesn’t mean he wasn’t,” Crystal said cheerfully. “The point of clandestine affairs isn’t to broadcast their existence to your wife.”

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

  “Unless the girlfriend killed her to get her out of the way. Or he did, to achieve the same.”

  “Except, she’d already asked for a divorce and Nathaniel had agreed. It seems a dangerous course of action when you’re already getting what you want.”

  “Hm. Fair enough.”

  “This is the most ridiculous conversation I’ve ever heard,” Mrs Pettigrew said, arms folded in a protective lock across her midriff. “Although, Mabel’s babbling reminded me about the gate between the properties. I’ve thought the killers were restricted to those people in the house, but she could easily have snuck across, done the deed, then slunk back to her home once I was dead.”

  Emily pursed her lips. “Where is the gate located? Wouldn’t somebody sneaking through there run the risk of somebody spotting them from inside the house?”

  Crystal raised her eyebrows and Emily jerked her head toward the back seat. “Just talking to the ghost.”

  “It’s right by the back door,” Mrs Pettigrew said in a more thoughtful tone. “That’s why it was great when the boys were little because they could run around in Mabel’s back garden, then wipe their feet in the back hall before they trod mud all over the house.”

  “Not that having a secret entrance does us any good if you still can’t remember what happened.”

  Crystal interrupted. “How did the police miss a murder, anyway? Didn’t they sign this one off as an accident?”

  “They did, and I’m not sure,” Emily said, turning the car into the medium’s driveway. “We’ve put in a request for the full c
oroner’s report, but the librarian warned it could take a long time. Unless you know the family well enough to request a copy.”

  “You know, Hilda—the housekeeper—is in my felting club.” Crystal struggled out of the car, then stuck her head back through the open passenger side window. “She’s not much inclined to do anybody a favour, but I can always ask and see.”

  “That sounds great. Even if she’s read through the report and can tell you some details, it’ll be a big help.”

  “Well, then. We meet tomorrow night. I’ll give it a shot.”

  Emily waved goodbye as Crystal mounted the porch steps, setting the wind chimes ringing.

  “What a waste of time,” Mrs Pettigrew said. “Remind me never to place any faith in your ideas again.”

  “You didn’t have any faith in this one.”

  Emily reversed back onto the road, heading for home, then heard a suspicious noise from the back seat. With a penchant for safety born from the car accident, she pulled over and stopped the car before turning around to investigate.

  “What?” the ghost asked as Emily stared between the seats, searching for the suspiciously familiar noise. “Keep driving. I want to get home, it’s getting late.”

  She flapped her hands in Emily’s face but that didn’t stop her spotting the culprit.

  “Meow,” the elderly bundle of grey fur said.

  Emily stared at the ghost and spoke in a flat tone. “You stole Peanut.”

  “He’s my cat,” Mrs Pettigrew insisted, folding her arms. “I didn’t steal a thing.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Emily wrung her hands together and stood back, surveying the cat to see if the hastily arranged setup would be to his satisfaction.

  “Stop worrying,” the ghost said, running a finger along Peanut’s back. “Cats are practically self-sufficient. Peanut’s capable of sorting things out for himself if you ever forget to feed him.”

  “Does that mean you forgot often?”

  “Once or twice.” Mrs Pettigrew glanced over when Emily gave a disdainful sniff—a strange role reversal. “Oh, what? Like you never skipped a meal. If he got all that hungry, the world is full of birds and mice, just waiting to be eaten.”

  “Only if he knows how to catch them. I’m not sure it’s something we should encourage.”

  “Peanut can hunt them,” the ghost said, giving the cat another long stroke along his back. “He’s got the instincts of a tiger.”

  “How old is he?” Emily tried but couldn’t keep the concern out of her voice. She remembered the doctor warning her not to keep an animal. Pets and head injuries don’t mix. Wait a few years until everything settles, then we can have another talk.

  “He’s quite the elderly gentleman, nowadays,” Mrs Pettigrew said. “Nathaniel let me pick him out as a wedding present, so he’s the grand old age of fifteen.”

  “Oh, goodness.” Emily felt behind her for the chair and lowered herself into it before she could fall. “Isn’t that about two hundred in people years?”

  “Years don’t matter when your will is strong, and Peanut is the strongest cat I know.”

  Emily was only slightly reassured when she woke the next morning and found the cat had survived the night. “What about leaving him alone during the day?” she asked Mrs Pettigrew. “Aren’t they meant to have someone keep them company? The poor thing might pine away to nothing, shut in here alone.”

  “I’m here,” the ghost replied, an annoyed expression on her face. “He won’t be alone.”

  “You’re not coming along with me to the auction house?”

  “It’s your job, not mine.” Mrs Pettigrew bent and chucked the cat under his chin. “My only task now is to look after this little fellow.”

  “And to remember who killed you. It would be good if you spent some time on that.”

  As Emily stormed out the door, she caught herself and had to laugh. She found the ghost so annoying when she was there, yet here she was, throwing a mini tantrum because the woman was staying at home all day.

  “That’s the goal, remember,” she muttered to herself as she got in the car. “To get rid of the ghost and go back to getting your normal life together.”

  In the excitement of the past few days, she’d completely forgotten her goal to put her life back on track.

  Pete was sneaking a quick ciggie outside the shop when Emily pulled up near the door. She tossed him a wave, then headed straight upstairs. Today, she needed to take everything scavenged from the boxes of donated goods to the auction house. The actual sale wouldn’t take place until tomorrow, Friday, but the auctioneer assistant needed to check and tag every item today, ready to be sold.

  Although her mind had been occupied by ghosts and cats last night, this morning Emily felt the nervous twist of trying something new. When buying and selling antiques had been a hobby, she’d never been too worried about making mistakes. The worst she could do was overpay for something she still thought looked nice.

  Here, today, she might prove herself useless at her new job. That left her facing life on her ACC compensation, until she qualified for government superannuation. Although every worker in the country paid into the Accident Compensation Corporation fund expressly to be covered in Emily’s situation, it still felt like welfare rather than insurance.

  Besides, she’d never managed to save when she received a huge profit-share at the end of each year. At eighty percent of her base salary, Emily would struggle to manage. Especially now she couldn’t even calculate simple bills.

  “All those people are there to help,” her neurologist had told her when Emily tried to explain the crawling sensation she got every time she needed assistance. “If you can’t work out your finances, someone will help you. It’s what they’re paid for. It’s the whole point of all these schemes. Likewise, if you need someone to help you read.”

  A shudder ran through her body now, triggered by the memory. No, thanks. If it came to that, she’d find another way. Better to be a ghost as annoying as Cynthia Pettigrew than to live with such turmoil every day.

  The array of signs outside the auction house were probably meant to inform, but they made her stomach pull into an even tighter knot. Emily knew her phone had a magic translation app for signs, but nobody had ever set it up for her and it was just another item on the long list of tasks she could no longer do for herself.

  By following a man carrying an apple box stacked high with goods, Emily found her way into the acceptance suite. A woman with thick, blonde hair directed operations. When Emily turned up in front of her, she barked out, “How many boxes?”

  That was something she could answer. “Four.”

  The thick brows lifted as they considered the one box held in Emily’s grasp.

  “I’ve left the rest out in the car.”

  The lady nodded and handed across four tabs. “Put these on the side and go over to table sixteen. Either I or somebody else will be across shortly to make a tally of items and offer spot valuations for the expensive goods.”

  Although she couldn’t read the sign, Emily followed the direction the woman had pointed and placed her box in the centre of a trestle table. She guessed at the end of the day, they’d be collapsed against the wall to open the space for the auctions.

  When the rest of the boxes were inside, Emily unfolded a chair leaning near the wall. The cry of thanks from her legs when she sat reminded her of Joanne, her physio. If she didn’t stop wearing herself out, a lecture would soon come down the pipes.

  “Hello again,” the blonde lady said a few minutes later. “I’m Sariah Channing. Are you the new girl working with Pete?”

  Judging the woman in front of her to be aged thirty-five tops, Emily smiled to herself at the choice of phrasing. “Yes, I’ve just started this week so be kind to me.” She held up her hands in surrender and the blonde woman laughed.

  “I used to lend a hand down there sometimes,” she said. “Before the current glut of over-donations, it was quite an exciting
task to sort through the goods on the hunt for a bargain.”

  “But you don’t go now?”

  “You can thank Netflix for that.” She held her clipboard out in front of her. “If an item in an op-shop doesn’t bring you joy, let it go.”

  Emily laughed politely, with no idea what the woman was talking about. “Well, I hope these items have more potential than most to bring somebody happiness.”

  “Let’s have a look.” The lady pulled the box toward her and started to rifle through the contents. After a few under-the-breath exclamations, Emily felt more hopeful about her judgment.

  “These are a wonderful selection,” Sariah said after ten minutes examination. “I’m impressed that anybody would donate such expensive pieces.”

  “I heard sometimes people like to use the donations as a tax write-off,” Emily said, parroting the information the librarian had told her.

  Perhaps it was the wrong thing to say because Sariah’s open face turned to closed, and she turned away. “I’ll fetch some labels,” she said, all enthusiasm gone from her voice. “We can get these tagged and ready for tomorrow. I’ll send you back with an estimate but be aware we don’t guarantee any of the valuations given.”

  “Oh, I’m aware of that,” Emily gushed, wanting to make up for whatever faux pas she’d just committed. “I’ve participated in auctions before and I know there’s no such thing as a sure thing.”

  Sariah drifted off and wandered back a few minutes later, dropping the labels and a marker pen on the table. “If you mark these up with your auction reference, we’ll take it from there.”

  Emily stared at the pen, her head hot and her chest hollow. She poked at the side of one marker with her fingertip.

  “Is there something wrong?” Sariah’s momentary pique had passed, and she leaned forward, frowning. “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll need help with the labels,” Emily said in a low voice. She checked behind her but the man at the next table was busy dealing with his own business. He didn’t look to have spare capacity to butt into hers.