by Kris Pearson
Erik leaned closer to Heather. “He’s thin and slippery is our DS Carver. Not the nicest cop you’ve ever met.”
“I think he has a horrible job, generally dealing with awful people,” I said in his defense. “Marion Wick is very pleasant.” I aimed that at John to see how he’d react, and was annoyed to get only a vague nod.
Paul finally gave in and started to describe the scene at the church. The broken door, the haze of pot fumes, the shooting at the rafters. “He was drunk, and high, and way out of control. I was pleased when he staggered out and roared off.”
“Sounds like he’s got someone riled up from that message,” Erik said. “Which direction did he go?”
“Mason’s Ridge, or that’s where he claimed he was heading. He could have gone anywhere. Just took off into open countryside on his big dirt bike.”
I broke off a piece my muffin and ate it. My omelet seemed to be taking a while, although if Erik and John were both at our table, who was doing the cooking?
Erik gave John a somehow significant look. A twitch of an eyebrow, a slight lift of his chin. “Worth a look?”
John rubbed his nose. “Yeah.”
“We could take a passenger,” Erik said.
John looked at Heather but replied to Erik. “Yeah.”
Something prickled between my shoulder blades. What were they really saying? A passenger to where?
Any further conversation was halted as the flame-haired waitress bustled over with Paul’s bacon and eggs and my omelet.
“Thanks Debs,” Erik said, pushing his chair back. “I’ll get the last one.” He returned a few seconds later with Heather’s eggs Benedict and laid the plate before her like a gift.
She inspected the generous portion and glanced up at him, shaking her head. “It looks lovely, but I’ll never manage the muffin as well.”
“Breakfast and lunch,” he reminded her. “We’ll put the muffin in a bag for you and you can eat it when we get back.”
“Back from where?” Paul asked.
I was wondering that too. Itching to know what the significant look between Erik and John meant.
Erik took a muffin from the tray, bit into it, and didn’t answer until he’d swallowed. “Back from Mason’s Ridge. John and I might take our tourist on a sightseeing trip in that direction. Show her a bit of the back-country. See what we can spot from the air.”
“Now?” Paul and Heather asked in unison.
“When we’ve finished here.”
“From the air?” I asked as the words sank in.
“I fly,” Erik said, in much the same tone he might have said ‘I walk’ or ‘I need a haircut’.
Heather’s eyes widened. “I’d love to!”
Erik leaned toward her again and sent her a small but intimate smile. “You don’t see much from the big jets. Too high. But we can give you a bird’s-eye view in our whirlybird.”
“You’ve got a chopper?” Paul demanded.
I hadn’t known that either, but there were a number of small planes around the district, and I’d heard at least one helicopter. The farmers often have airstrips where the topdressing pilots can land and reload, even if they don’t have a plane of their own. The surrounding hills are steep and getting sprays and fertilizer onto the land is often best done from the air.
John rubbed his nose. “Yeah – we fly in and out from Kirkpatrick’s place. Keep her in an old barn there.”
That was news to me. I thought I knew Erik and John quite well, but apparently not. How could they afford a helicopter? How had they paid for the Burkeville Bar and Café if it came to that? I’d never heard either of them groaning about mortgage repayments, and there’s a nice-looking house on the property, too. Maybe they’d won a big lottery back in the States and escaped to the southern hemisphere with enough cash to start a whole new life? Maybe they were crooks and this was what they’d spent their ill-gotten gains on?
“Eat your omelet, Merry,” John added. I must have been staring into space like a zombie as I reviewed possibilities.
“This is delicious,” Heather said.
Erik reached for the teapot and poured her tea. “Ready for coffees yet?” he asked the rest of us.
“I’ll go.” John rose from his seat, casting an eye across to the two other occupied tables, and checking all was well before heading for the noisy coffee maker. He shuttled back and forth with a flat white for me, and long blacks for Paul, Erik and himself. I happen to know our vicar often prefers tea, but he tried the coffee, stirred quite a lot of sugar into it, and gulped it down without complaint.
But lucky Heather! Private sightseeing by helicopter. My blue eyes had probably turned a bit green. I speared a couple of slices of mushroom and tried not to look as though I minded, all the while cogitating about Margaret Alsop’s transformation into an unlikely geriatric bombshell. With her husband Tom undoubtedly in jail for years ahead, was she trying to attract other men? Or finally looking like the woman she’d always wanted to be? She’d left it a bit late if so. Did men of sixty-plus find women of sixty-plus with big boobs on display and peroxided hair attractive? The only answer I came up with was ‘possibly’. And where had the poodle come from? Why hadn’t she taken over her sister’s two little dogs, Itsy and Fluffy? They’d been absolute darlings and had started my whole pet-minding career. Yes, Lurline Lawrence at the Drizzle Bay Animal Shelter had been named in Isobel’s will as the person who would find them their next home, but surely her own sister had precedence over butcher Bernie Karaka and his wife Aroha?
I turned to Paul as he set his coffee cup down. “Is Margaret still on the church flower roster?”
His gaze was fixed on Heather and Erik, and it was a very suspicious gaze. It looked as though he’d now well and truly spotted their mutual attraction. Protective brother? How would I feel if it was my sister making eyes at someone like Erik? A foreigner with secrets, and enough mysterious money to buy a helicopter? A handsome and assured man with a wolfish smile? Who was undoubtedly younger than his startling white hair indicated?
“Yes,” Paul replied, but he was barely taking notice of me because he said to Erik, “Don’t fly so close he can shoot you down.”
Erik suddenly showed all his teeth. “I haven’t lived this long without being careful. Heather will be in safe hands, never fear.”
That was possibly what Paul was worried about!
“We’ll do one high pass along the ridge,” John said. “See if we can spot anything suspicious.”
“Like concealed pot plantations, animals corralled where they shouldn’t be,” Erik inserted. “He may not even be there. Could be he was laying down a smokescreen when he mentioned Mason’s Ridge.”
“Possibly,” Paul conceded. “But I think he was so high and so drunk he’d have had trouble blurting out anything but the truth.”
Heather tilted her teacup and finished her tea. Her blonde hair shone in the sunshine and her mint-green and white striped T-shirt lit up her pale skin. She looked so fresh and pretty I wasn’t surprised Erik was attracted.
“You want more tea?” he asked, already halfway out of his seat for her.
She shook her head. “Better not if you’re serious about taking me flying.”
“You know where Mason’s Ridge is?” Paul asked, laying his knife and fork down on his empty plate.
Erik sat again, dug out his phone, and scrolled through a series of screens, turning it in Paul’s direction when he found the one he wanted. “Maybe four miles from the coast, so four miles by air. Not far. We won’t be long.”
Paul narrowed his eyes and watched as Erik brought up an aerial shot of Burkeville and the main highway. I peered over his shoulder and Heather leaned even closer to Erik.
“Did you shoot this while you were flying?” I asked, fascinated by the way the muscles and tendons slid under his olive skin. No excess fat there, for sure!
He shook his head. “Taken from a lot higher than that. I have a buddy back home who works with satellite i
maging, and he’s sometimes willing to share special info.” He scrolled across the countryside. “See – Kirkpatrick’s farm. There’s the barn where our big bird lives… and if we go further in this direction…” He moved on, and there were soon no roads visible. “So we’re a couple of miles in now, and quite a lot higher. That’s the Pinus radiata plantation you can see from the highway further north. That’s Stanley Road. And here, at around four miles, is Mason’s Ridge.”
Paul shook his head as he focused on all the shades of green. The dips and hollows and up-thrust hills. “So you navigate with photographs instead of maps? How do you know what you’re looking at?”
Erik showed all his teeth in a blazing grin as he tapped out a further instruction. Yellow forestry tracks and firebreaks appeared over the vegetation. Then, in white, heights above sea level on some of the peaks, and occasional place names. Sure enough, Mason’s Ridge showed clearly.
“How high is this shot from?” Paul asked.
In answer Erik pulled back and back until the coast showed green against the blue sea, and occasional clouds drifted by below. Then further still, until the whole of the North Island was visible, surrounded by ocean.
Paul and I goggled at each other. “From space,” I said.
“Cool, huh?” Erik said, returning to the home screen as though he hadn’t just shared a total miracle. “They’re all shot from space these days. You look up any map and it asks if you want the satellite view.”
“It does, doesn’t it,” Heather agreed. “But I’ve never seen all the empty pieces of countryside filled in with details like that.”
Erik gave a secretive smile. “It’s not what you know but who you know, sometimes.”
The alarming files I’d discovered in the concealed office behind Isobel’s garage swam back into my brain. I’d transferred them to my Dropbox account, and just as well, because the office had been ransacked only hours later. I’d sent the files on to the Police once I’d been rescued and revived. Maybe I still had access to them? I could have another look and see exactly what they said about our hosts. Black Ops? Really?
Erik flexed his shoulders. “Jawn’s right though – one high pass until we see how the land lies.” He enclosed Heather’s small hand in his, and rose.
Paul was definitely looking twitchy about having his sister stolen away.
I swallowed my last mouthful of omelet. “Shall we take the dogs for a walk on the beach?” I suggested.
“I’ll have a quick word with Debs,” John said, checking his watch. “Make sure she can cope without us for the next half hour.” And a couple of minutes later the three of them roared away in John’s black pickup truck.
*
Paul untangled Manny’s lead, and I gripped Dan’s. We made it safely across the main highway and down a small flight of steps to the breezy beach, keeping to the strip of damp sand where it was easier to walk.
“We haven’t paid for brunch yet,” Paul said.
I laughed. “They’ve got a helicopter so they probably don’t need our money.” I pulled Dan away from investigating something that apparently smelled delicious to him – and smelled like dead fish to me. “Did you know about that?”
Paul shook his head. “Not a clue. They’re a funny pair. Run a good business. Affable and likeable, but even after all this time I know barely anything about them.”
“Mmmm. They’re secretive. I’d like to know more for sure. They come from different states. John told me he’s from Southern California. I know Erik’s not. ‘Dawg’ instead of ‘darrg’, which is how John says dog.”
Paul rubbed his chin. “They’re closer in age than I first thought,” he said, kicking at a piece of driftwood. “Erik’s hair is totally misleading. It’s easy to presume he’s twenty years older, and at first glance he’s on the solid side, but it’s all muscle. He’s light on his feet. I knew guys like that in the army. Trained fighting machines. Hair-trigger reflexes. I’m pretty sure John was a SEAL, so what about Erik? Also something in the forces is my bet. And who’s this ‘buddy’ who passes on the satellite shots with all that detail?”
I bent and picked up an iridescent paua shell, tilting it against the sun so the blues and greens and violets shone and sparkled. “You can find a lot online, but I’ve never seen maps with anything like that. So what are they doing here? Hiding?”
“It’s a pretty public way to hide. Hiding in plain sight, but maybe.” He cocked his head. “There they go.”
Then I heard it, too. The unmistakable thump of rotors. We stopped and gazed in the direction of the noise and a few seconds later I caught sight of them. “Right – above the macrocarpa trees.”
“Not a sound I’m fond of,” Paul muttered, face contorted. I hated to think what he’d lived through in Afghanistan.
The little craft rose higher and flew straight for us, circling far enough out over the water that we weren’t sandblasted or drenched. Manny and Dan started a furious bark-off at the intruder, and I waved the paua shell at them. I think I saw Heather waving back to us. Then they peeled away, gained height, and headed inland.
“So what do you make of Margaret Alsop’s new look?” I couldn’t help asking once the noise had died away.
Even over the crashing of the waves I heard Paul draw a deep breath. “You have to remember she’s had several big shocks in a row, Merry. First her sister, then her husband, then her house.”
“And her fancy imported car,” I added.
He looked across at me and nodded. “I think her very changed appearance is a result of all that.”
“You’re a very nice man, Paul McCreagh,” I said, somewhat chastened.
“I agree she doesn’t make an ideal blonde,” he added, trying to hide a grin.
“But the neckline was spectacular,” I chortled. “Just as well she had little Pierre to hide behind.”
We walked on in the sunshine, occasionally pulling the dogs away from smelly treats in the long line of driftwood and seaweed at the high-tide line. After twenty minutes Manny’s good ears heard the helicopter returning, so we changed direction and ambled back the way we’d come. Kirkpatrick’s farm is only a few hundred yards up a side road, so we arrived right as they were pulling in to park the truck among the newly arrived lunch crowd.
Heather looked white as a ghost. Erik had his arm around her and she was leaning against his chest. Before Paul had any chance to object, she gasped, “It’s terrible. He’s dead!”
4 – X Marks the Spot
My ham and mushroom omelet made a sudden rush for freedom, and I clutched my ribs and swallowed hard to hold it down. Who was dead? Not John or Erik, so that left Beefy, or…?
“Come up to the house for a while,” Erik said, leading the way along a path bordered with clumps of pink and cream miniature flaxes. He wasn’t letting go of Heather. “Tie the dogs to the tree there. This won’t take long.”
“Who’s dead?” Paul demanded.
“Back in half a minute,” John called, striding through to check on things at the café.
“The late lamented Beefy, we’re guessing,” Erik snapped. “Does he have a better name than that?”
Paul looked nonplussed. “No idea.”
By the time John had hurried back I’d secured Manny and Dan as instructed and Erik had unlocked their big cedar front door. He showed us into a room filled with sunlight and ocean views, and settled Heather on a big sofa, keeping his arm around her as though she’d fall over without his support. Maybe she would have. She was visibly trembling.
“All good,” John reported on his return. “Debs is coping, and Warren’s home from Auckland so she’s got him helping out. I’ll go back in a few minutes.”
“In the meantime,” Erik said, “it looks as though we have a case for DS Weasel.”
“It was weird and horrible,” Heather blurted. “There was a big driftwood tree that looked like an X. Someone had arranged him on it like a target.”
“Fair enough description,” John said, turn
ing to Paul and me. “We were doing a bit of a loop, and a final pass along the beach to get Heather oriented to the local surroundings, and we couldn’t miss him. Someone had heaved him up onto a huge piece of weathered driftwood, almost like they were showing him off. They meant him to be found.”
“Not suicide?” Paul asked.
“Could you stretch your arms and legs out on a tree trunk after shooting yourself in the chest?” John asked.
Heather shuddered, and Erik drew her even closer.
John grimaced. “Definitely shot. Someone’s sending a warning. Maybe using wild man Beefy as a signal to others to keep quiet.”
“Almost like he was crucified,” Heather added. “X marks the spot. I could barely look.”
“I’ve got DS Carver’s number here,” I quavered, pulling my phone and the iridescent paua shell from my small shoulder bag. I laid the shell on the side table and flicked through my contacts. “I had to call him about the cow in the car.” I passed my phone across to John with a trembling hand. To my surprise he called direct instead of putting the number into his own phone.
“No – not Merry,” he said when Bruce Carver answered. “I’m using her phone because I want to send you some photos from mine. Probably Beefy Haldane – the clown they left the notice for in her brother’s car… Yep, sure.” He waited a few seconds. I presumed he was being told the conversation would be recorded.
“Speaker?” he mouthed, peering at my screen, so I reached over and hit the right key. “Okayyyyy… we took Paul McCreagh’s sister for a scenic flight this morning. Just to look at some of the district from the air. As far as Mason’s Ridge.” We all listened while DS Carver asked why.
“She’s visiting from England. The three of them came here for brunch. It seemed like a friendly thing to do.” He closed his eyes and dragged in a long, deep breath while DS Carver yakked on about not spreading the car break-in story any further afield. “Yep, but Merry was a bit rattled. She needed that car so she and McCreagh could collect the sister from the airport. Heather. Heather McCreagh.”