by Kris Pearson
Poor Heather. If she was truly depressed then a few weeks of summer weather and time away from her bossy parent might help but it wouldn’t be any guarantee of a cure. She probably needed a new man to replace all the sadness of losing her old one. Er – her late husband.
I was sure a new man would cheer me up heaps – and I was already pretty contented.
After nosing around the airport for a while I found a short-term park beside a pillar which several people had already scraped. I proceeded with care and managed to shoehorn the car into it.
Paul and I walked into the main concourse with plenty of time to spare before Heather was due to land. He paused beside the enormous glass window that gave a ring-side view of the take-offs and landings. “I always thought that job looked like fun” he said, nodding towards the orange jacketed men zooming about in little jeeps towing trolleys loaded with baggage.
“I always thought that job would be fun,” I said pointing to the huge sculpture of the spooky Gollum leering down at us from high up on the wall.
Paul looked up and smiled. “International visitors certainly get to hear about New Zealand’s connection to the Lord of the Rings film trilogy.” His brows drew together. “Did you really want to be an artist instead of a book editor?”
I glanced across to where an eagle, so large a full-sized human witch was perched between its massive wings, hung. “Wouldn’t have had the talent. I was always good with words and my life just went in that direction.”
We’d no sooner settled ourselves with a coffee and a cupcake each (yes, I admit it, my second high-calorie treat for the day) than my handbag started playing ‘Jingle Bells’. What can I say? I enjoy messing with my cell phone’s ringtones, and that had seemed a good choice for December. Paul grinned, and I scrambled to grab it before too many people around us started laughing at my choice.
It was Detective Wick of the Photo-shopped eyes. “Ms Summerfield – just another couple of questions if you don’t mind?”
“No probs,” I said, which might have been a bit casual given the situation because she went on to ask how many smart-keys there were to Graham’s car.
“Two as far as I know. There’s the one always in his suit pocket or on his desk, and there’s another on a hook inside one of the kitchen cupboards, although it’s rarely used.”
“So that’s how you gained access to the car, and found the er…?”
“Leg of beef,” I offered helpfully. Of course it was. “Yes.” What was she really getting at?
“And you’ve never noticed it missing?”
Paul’s eyebrows were climbing his forehead as he stirred the sugar into his coffee.
“No, I’ve never noticed it missing, but I don’t look for it very often. It’s just… there. I’m much more concerned to know where my own keys are. ”
“So it could have been removed from the kitchen cupboard and replaced again without you noticing?”
I changed my phone to the other hand. Paul had sprinkled the little paper tube of sugar into my coffee so I picked up my teaspoon and started to stir. “Yes, I suppose so, but it’s most unlikely. The house is often locked if I’m there working on my own, and it’s always locked if Graham’s at work and I’m not there.”
“Often locked?”
“There are two dogs running free on the property. It’s well fenced and has a gate, and the dogs are inside that gate with me. They bark at strangers. I don’t feel the need to lock it up like Fort Knox.”
She seemed to be considering that because it was a while before she asked, “Ms Summerfield, who else would know about the key in the kitchen cupboard?”
Oh, this was getting silly! “No-one. Why would they? We don’t have visitors who open and shut the kitchen cupboards to see what’s in them.”
I closed my eyes and found Paul biting into his cupcake when I opened them.
“Tradespeople or cleaning staff perhaps?” She was definitely thorough.
I gave it a few seconds’ thought. “No tradespeople for ages. An electrician back in June or July because the garage and porch lights were playing up. I don’t expect he looked in the kitchen cupboards. You saw it was quite an old house, and the switchboard with all the circuit-breaker thingies is in the kitchen. But it’s up above the cupboards. You don’t need to open any of them to get to it.”
“And who was the electrician, Ms Summerfield?”
I gritted my teeth. “Evan Sutcliffe of Sutcliffe Electrical. We’ve used him before.”
“And cleaners?”
“It wouldn’t be her. She was useless. Barely cleaned anything. Certainly didn’t bother opening any cupboard doors. I went back to doing it myself again.” I set the teaspoon down on my saucer with a clatter, hoping Detective Wick might hear it and deduce I was in a social situation and could do without her questions.
“And that was…?”
I sighed. “Our next door neighbor, Rochelle Simmons. Or at least she’s the gown-up daughter of our next door neighbor. Useless girl. Had a baby very young. No husband. Her mother was trying to find work for her. So when Nancy asked – that’s the mother – I said we’d give Rochelle two hours’ housework each week as a favor. Just the floors really.” I stopped talking for a moment and sipped my coffee while it was still hot enough. “And she was so unenthusiastic we let her go after a few weeks. Sighs of relief all round, I suspect. She brought her cute wee daughter with her the last time. School holidays. Kaydee-Jane. She has a lot more spark than her mother.”
“And you’ve no feeling any of the cupboards were opened?”
I scoffed at that. “Only the one in the utility room where we keep the vacuum cleaner and broom and so on. And not with any enthusiasm.”
“And the little girl wouldn’t have gone exploring?”
I gave my coffee another stir. “Even if she had, she couldn’t have reached that key. Kaydee-Jane is six. I doubt she comes to the top of the kitchen counter. The key is in a bank of cupboards above that. Miles above her head. Almost miles above mine. I have to reach up for it, so no – not a chance.”
I noticed Paul checking his watch and decided I’d had enough of Marion Wick. “I’m sorry, but I think the flight I’m waiting for has just landed. I need to go and meet someone.”
“Thanks again,” she said breezily. “We know where to find you.” And disconnected.
I shrugged at Paul. “Marion Wick. They’re trying to work out how anyone else got into Graham’s car. Is it time we went up to Arrivals?”
“No – another ten minutes or so. Just buying you time to enjoy your coffee.”
I smiled gratefully. Nice man. He needed a wife to enjoy life with.
*
Heather was beautiful. As blonde as Paul was dark. Blonder than me, and paler-skinned, although I had to remember she’d just arrived from the middle of an English winter. Absolutely an English rose, and rather a droopy one after the long flight.
I was interested to hear how Paul introduced me once he released her from an enthusiastic hug and a kiss on the cheek. Was I a friend? A special friend? A parishioner?
“Heather, this is Merry Summerfield who’s been kind enough to give us a ride home.”
Well, that didn’t tell her much! Or me.
“There’s plenty of room in the car for luggage,” I said, still vaguely wondering about golf clubs, and slightly miffed at Paul’s lack of description.
“Brought the minimum,” she said, yawning and then apologizing. “Only two to collect, and neither huge.” She grasped the handle of her wheelie cabin bag. It looked to be right up to the size limit, but I guess a flight halfway around the world is a different proposition from just an hour between Wellington and Auckland.
We followed the queue of other arrivals and greeters to the baggage claim area. Garlands of tinsel and shiny baubles hung from the walls and Christmas music swelled from concealed speakers. I privately thought some lovely Maori songs would have made a nice welcome, but then again it would have sounded rude choppin
g into them with crackly announcements. Paul commandeered a trolley, and ten or so minutes later we were rolling out toward the car. Heather shrugged off her jacket the moment we hit the open air. “That’s better,” she said, draping it around her cabin bag handle, flexing her shoulders, and drawing in a deep breath. “I so needed to get away to somewhere different.”
“And away from Mother?” Paul suggested.
“You have no idea.”
He gave a grim laugh. “I probably have, you know.”
Heather linked her arm through his. “Maybe you do at that, Paul-James.”
Paul-James? I liked that.
“So I thought we might have dinner at a local bistro to welcome you,” he said as we reached the car.
Heather looked up at him and gave her head a slow shake. “I was thinking a pot of tea, a slice of toast, and early to bed would be perfect.”
I saw disappointment on Paul’s face and quickly countered with, “Or brunch tomorrow at the Burkeville, which would really be better because the weather was closing in when we left. Their courtyard is lovely on a fine morning.”
He gave a wry smile and conceded defeat as I opened the trunk to stow the luggage away. I’d lined it with a colorful old Persian hearth mat in lieu of the carpet the Police had in their care. His smile grew broader at the unlikely sight. “Beans on that toast?” he asked Heather.
“Too much,” she murmured. “A scrape of honey? Something light. It feels like I’ve been sitting in planes forever, and there’s constant food, plus my lunch in Auckland.”
Yes, it’s a long trip all the way from England to New Zealand, and it sounded as though she’d flown direct.
“Okay, brunch tomorrow at the Burkeville if it’s fine,” he agreed.
“I’d better bring the dogs after leaving them alone this afternoon,” I inserted. “Which will be fine in my smaller car without luggage because they’d go mad in this one with the smell.” I mentally slapped myself on the head. “Unless you two want some time alone, seeing Heather’s only just arrived?” I make such stupid assumptions sometimes!
“No,” they said in unison, so I hoped they meant it.
“Roses?” Heather asked, raising her head and sniffing as she slid into the passenger side.
“Something like that,” I agreed. “It wasn’t so rosy this morning.”
Paul pulled the back door closed after him and the snick of seatbelts followed. “You sure we’ll all fit in yours?”
“No problem if I take the parcel shelf out.” I concentrated on getting past that threatening pillar and then we threaded our way through the lanes to where the pay machines were. Heather spent the drive peering around, starting with the new air traffic control tower at the airport. There’s no polite way of saying this: Wellington can be a very windy place, set as it is on the edge of the water dividing two mountainous islands. The air fairly whistles by sometimes, and the new tower has been built so it leans into the prevailing wind by a jokey twelve degrees.
“Look!” she gasped, pointing to it across the other side of the runway. Paul and I laughed at her reaction. Yes, it’s spectacular – the famous Leaning Tower of Pisa leans by only four degrees. At least the Wellington one has proper foundations.
The hills around the harbor rose steep and dark, moody and dramatic as clouds drifted across the tops and swirled around the gullies. The water glittered gray and silver with reflections. Very small yachts – maybe an after-school class – wove around each other close to one of the sailing clubs.
Heather pointed to a group of houses perched high up one of the ridges. “I can’t believe some of the places they’ve built. The views must be fantastic.”
“Have we got time for a trip up to the top of Mount Victoria?” I asked Paul.
“Be nicer on a better day.” I saw his smile in the rear-view mirror. “A future treat?”
We drove on, through the city, onto the multi-lane highway that skirts the harbor, and up through the steep Ngauranga Gorge – a multi-lane engineering miracle cut through rocky hills. In no time we were out past suburbia and heading home. Paul provided commentary and answers. Sure enough, we arrived in Drizzle Bay in drizzle.
*
Next morning at 9.30 Paul’s beautiful BBC accent greeted me when I’d stopped my phone playing ‘Jingle Bells’. “Merry – sorry about this. Heather’s still deep in the Land of Nod. She grunted, rolled over, demanded I closed her curtains again, and begged for the morning in bed.” I heard the fond smile in his voice. “As the weather’s still looking dodgy, I gave in without too much discussion. Can we try again tomorrow?”
Oh goody, I was all dressed and made up for an outing that wasn’t going to happen.
“Of course, Paul,” I replied with the utmost graciousness. “That was a really long flight for her. Brunch will be much nicer on a sunny morning, anyway.”
“Are you free tomorrow? Wednesday?” There was pleasing hope in his question.
“You know me. I make my own hours.” I hesitated for a couple of seconds. “I doubt she’s one of yours but are you acquainted with Levana Lowenstein?”
Paul made a considering type of noise. Quite a sexy rumble, actually. “Don’t think so.”
“As we’re not going out to the Burkeville you can think of me taking a second pass through her cheese and yoghurt recipes with accompanying wartime memories.”
“Ah,” he said.
“These were dictated several years ago to her granddaughter, Rebecca, who recorded them and has been trying to arrange them into a book. She’s no writer, let me tell you!”
Paul chuckled, damn him. “Bad luck. I’ll leave you to that happy task, then,” he said. “By the way, you might like to know you’re the inspiration for this Sunday’s sermon.”
Surely not! How could I be?
“What do you make of ‘God, who at sundry times and in divers manners spake in time past unto the fathers by the prophets’?”
“Umm?” I made nothing much at all, but how was I going to tell him that?
“Hebrews Chapter One.” Paul’s tone was gently teasing. “It’s a lot simpler these days. There are so many versions, but here’s one I like. ‘In the past God spoke to our ancestors through the prophets at many times and in various ways.’ Properly edited, you might say.”
I swallowed. “Certainly easier to understand. I wouldn’t need to take my metaphorical red pencil to that.”
“And it continues, ‘But in these last days He has spoken to us by his Son, whom He appointed heir of all things, and through whom also He made the universe.’ Lovely words, aren’t they? I think I’ll use them as a demonstration that His wisdom is now more accessible than it ever used to be.”
I swallowed. “You might get a few quibbles from the scientists who think they know how the universe was made.”
Paul knew I was teasing him. “Good thing I don’t have many scientists in my congregations,” he said. “Thanks for understanding.” And he disconnected.
Well, understanding about not going to the Burkeville, anyway. I was less sure about the ancestors and the prophets, but it wouldn’t hurt me to grab one of the newer versions of the Bible and have a read. Get more on his wavelength, so to speak.
As I was now sadly not brunching at the Burkeville, I made some toast, heavy on the marmalade, decided the dogs were getting plenty of exercise running around the wet yard so didn’t need a walk yet, and opened up my laptop. Bliss oh joy – food rationing and turnip growing.
I really wasn’t in the mood.A good goss with Lurline always cheers me up so I gave her a call instead. She meets a lot of people through the animal shelter. Might she have picked up anything about rustling in the Drizzle Bay area? Mindful of Bruce Carver’s request not to spread the leg of beef news around, I started with the weather after the greetings were done. “Isn’t it awful? The rain’s driving in against my office windows and making it really hard to concentrate. How’s everything with you?”
She made a scoffing noise. “Merry Sum
merfield – you can’t get away with talking about the weather when the Police have been hanging around your garage. What on earth’s been going on there?”
Busted. I wriggled in my chair. “Well I’m sworn to secrecy on some of it, because of ‘on-going investigations’, as they say, but someone parked a leg of beef in the trunk of Graham’s car. Two nice young constables dragged it out and put it on the driveway, and half the beach took photos.”
“Not so secret, then,” she said. I heard the teasing smile in her voice.
“Not that part, no. But…”
“Spit it out.”
“Well, I’m wondering…”
“Yeeees…?”
“If you’ve had any dodgy types in there, looking for hunting dogs, maybe? I don’t know, but something big and scary that could be used to round up cattle?”
“Illegally, you mean?” No flies on Lurline.
“Probably. Someone who’s bred and raised a fine cattle beast isn’t going to butcher it and put some in a car for a joke. It has to be stolen.”
“Rustled?”
Well, she’d said it so I didn’t have to. “Yes, I suppose. Have you heard anything?”
“Nothing… concrete…” I heard definite hesitation in her voice.
“Has Bruce Carver been asking?”
“Yes. His off-sider, anyway. That Wick woman.”
I snorted at her description. “She’s pleasant enough.”
Lurline sighed. “But those legs. Those eyes. Not fair.”
I had to agree. I also had to earn a living, so after a bit more chat I excused myself and started reading and highlighting and commenting, losing myself in my work until I noticed leaves sparkling in watery sunshine and the clouds evaporating.
I sat up straighter, worked my arms to and fro like a demented duck attempting takeoff, and made sure the file was saved. Then I staggered to my feet, desperate for coffee.