by Kris Pearson
The trestle tables stretched in a double row under the sheltering shop verandas. Christmas carols poured from specially installed speakers, and there was a break for clearing the first course away and setting out the desserts so Paul’s special nativity re-enactment could take place.
The Virgin Mary wore less eye make-up than she had during rehearsals. The boy playing Joseph tripped on his long robe and was hauled upright again by a herald angel. The Baby Jesus looked a lot like Barbie swaddled in a shawl, and the ox and ass were wondrous creations decorated by some of the youngest pupils at the local school. One of the dads had cut them out of leftover wallboard. Their hides were an interesting patchwork of old carpet samples. The ass had cat’s whiskers. The ox had an udder – which was possibly better than any male alternative a seven-year-old might invent.
Paul was still desperately shaken and distressed, but no-one would have known except Heather and me. The helicopters, the guns, the shots, the blood, and Beefy’s death, had all combined to pull his PTSD into horrible sharp focus again. He somehow managed to stay upright and affable, moving quietly among the guests with a greeting and a kind word for everyone. After what he’d recently been through it was a miracle he was still on his feet.
Once the final carols were sung and the clearing up began, we made him sit down with a glass of orange juice and a slice of cake. “You did well, Paul-James,’ Heather said, ruffling his hair. No ‘product’ today, obviously. Her pale fingers moved freely through his dark thatch.
“Sometimes,” he said reflectively, “it’s good to have something so involving you can’t think about other things.”
“Just the afternoon family service now,” Heather agreed. “And you can glide through that with your eyes closed.”
“I’ll manage better than gliding,” he admonished. “Whole heart or nothing.”
“Joking,” she murmured as Jim and Zinnia Drizzle stopped by for a word.
“Excellent lunch again this year, Vicar,” Jim said. “Wonderful turn-out.”
“And the nativity play was charming,” Lady Zin added. “I took a few photos. Might manage a painting or two for the school.”
“Be sure to get the ox’s udder in,” I couldn’t help suggesting.
She pressed her lips together and her eyes twinkled. “That was creative,” she agreed.
“Hopefully that’s the end of the current round of rustling,” Jim said. “The end paddock by the road is a little too accessible. I’ll get Denny to sort out some extra security once he’s back from Fiji. Maybe cameras like the avocado growers are using now.”
“So was it your beef we were eating?” I asked. “Some of us assumed it might be Perce Percy’s.”
Jim shook his head. “Sadly, it was mine. And it seems Haldane had nothing to do with it, despite my suspicions.”
“Still no word about who killed the son?” Zinnia asked. “Horrible the way he was laid out on that tree.”
“Still no word,” I agreed. “Bruce Carver is convinced it wasn’t those rustlers who moved in to the cottage at the Point and bailed up poor Margaret. They swear they found him already dead. Admitted they put him on the tree, though, because they were fed up with him stealing their pot.”
“Twisted,” Zinnia muttered.
“Or high,” I said. “They thought they’d make an example of him in some warped way. The DS said the bullet didn’t come from any of their guns.”
“But they did steal his motor bike,” Paul said. “The Police found it parked beside the chiller in the sister’s garden.”
Jim nodded. “I saw that in the Coastal Courier.”
Little did they know I’d written the article. After seeing so many of the people I edited turning up in print I’d decided to join them. I quite enjoyed keeping my ears flapping and writing up short (unpaid) reports for Bob Burgess the editor. The crafting conference and sale had set me on a whole new path.
The nativity play and the community lunch would probably feature in the first January issue. I’d taken photos in case no-one else had.
The new garbage bins on the beach that Graham’s Rotary Club had raised funds for deserved a mention.
Then there was the Burkeville’s second helicopter and John’s action adventures. Also Lurline Lawrence’s story about the incredible trek little Theo the miniature dachshund had made as he tried to return to his owners (on such short legs, too).
Winston Bamber had scored an art-world coup – an upcoming exhibition of works by the talented Rona Costello-Eckhardt – better known as ‘Old Rona Jarvis’ to Drizzle Bay-ites. In late spring, when Paul and Jasper Hornbeam had helped clear up her overgrown garden and mended her unsafe steps they’d found a treasure trove of 1960s psychedelic and op art stacked in her disused garage. The sale of just a few pieces at Winston’s eye-watering prices would assure Rona of full-time care for the rest of her life.
Belinda Buttercup had let slip to me she’d be taking over Drizzle Bay Modes in a couple of months. She planned to demolish part of the wall between the two premises and start a mother-of-the-bride business to compliment Brides by Butterfly. Good idea!
Everywhere I looked, and everyone I spoke to, seemed to have a story. Don’t ever tell me nothing happens in tiny towns…
Meanwhile we still had our murder mystery. Bruce Carver’s fingernails were now so short he had nothing left to chew. There was no murder weapon, no motive, and no apparent suspect as Christmas came and went. Who had killed poor Beefy junior? And why?
*
I bumped into Jim Drizzle quite by chance ten days into January as I was heading to the Mini-mart for a few groceries. He was sitting at one of Iona’s outdoor tables with a cuppa and a big slice of chocolate cake.
“Uncle Jim!” I exclaimed. “What are you doing eating that when Lady Zinnia cooks so well?”
He looked as guilty as a dog caught stealing sausages off a barbecue, and motioned me to sit. “Zin doesn’t put frosting on anything or make puddings these days,” he confided. “She’s trying to keep our weight down, but I’ve a bit of a sweet tooth. Be happy to go without a dozen crackers and cottage cheese for just one slice of this occasionally.”
“Might need to be two dozen crackers and cottage cheese, I said, eyeing the decadent cake. “I won’t tell her. In fact it looks so good I’ll grab a piece for myself if you’re going to be here a few minutes longer.” I ducked inside and was soon back again. It was indeed very good cake.
“No more stock stolen?” I asked, licking crumbs out of my lipstick.
“All good so far. I’ve got Denny coming back from Fiji today so that’ll take a load off.”
I wiped my fingers on the paper napkin. “The wedding went well, I hope?”
“He phoned to say it had, and to check on things generally. It sounds as though Lorraine is going downhill fast, though. The extra holiday time hasn’t helped.”
I did some slow, sympathetic nodding. “Maybe it’s just as well the daughter hurried the wedding up if his wife’s getting worse?”
Jim shook his head. “Or maybe it would have been a lot less stress for her if young Caitlin had left things the way they already were.”
I shrugged. “Hard to tell. Difficult either way. Denny was a friend of Graham’s. I used to adore him from afar when I was twelve or so. I guess he must have been about eighteen.”
Jim gave a comfortable chuckle. “You were a little minx back then. I remember your dad being worried about what he had to look forward to.”
I looked at old Jim with astonishment. “No, surely not! I was quite a good kid. I teamed up with Duncan pretty early on, but it never came to much back then. We went our separate ways for years and then met up again.” I screwed up my paper napkin as though I was screwing Duncan Skene’s neck. “More’s the pity.”
We sat there in the sun, silent for a couple of minutes.
Suddenly Jim took a determined breath and said, “I’m going to get rid of that tree.”
“Where David Haldane was laid out?”
He gave a slow nod. He must have known I was behind some of the Courier’s stories because he added, “I don’t want this getting around until it’s done, Merry. Fait accompli and so on.”
“Okay, but why?”
Jim turned his cup on its saucer, plainly looking for the best explanation. “It’s not quite on my land,” he admitted after a few seconds. “It’s probably not my business to see to it, but I don’t like the thought of having it there after what happened. And everyone will have a different theory about what’s best to do; cut it up with chainsaws, dig a pit with a dozer and try to bury it…”
“Have to be a huge pit,” I interrupted.
His bristly white eyebrows rose. “Or blow it to smithereens with explosive. That’s the option I’d favor. We’ve got some left in the safe out in the barn. From clearing the tree slash June’s big storm dumped into the river from the forestry land. Heck of a mess, that was.”
“Sounds pretty effective.”
“Put a few sticks underneath and up she goes.”
“What? You don’t have to drill holes first?”
Jim gave a bark of laughter. “Denny’s the farm manager. His decision. That’s what I pay him for.” After a few more seconds he pushed his chair back from the table. “I dropped my Lizzie off with Lisa for a health check earlier. I’ll go and collect her now. Nice to see you Merry.” He tipped his shapeless old stockman’s hat to me and stumped away.
Hmm. Definitely a story for the Courier if I could keep it to myself and maybe get some before and after photos. And during!
I dived into the Mini-mart for the groceries, did a quick trek around the shelves, and then settled at my desk intending to put in some serious work. The current project was a dual-time novel with sixties mini-skirts, go-go boots and flared trousers in places and the Second World War years in others. That era’s really trending right now. The heroine – or possibly her mysterious mother – moved back and forth in time, and it was a satisfying puzzle, both to read and to work with.
On such a fantastic day a beach-walk with the spaniels was definitely on, so once I’d had enough of Pearl Harbor, utility clothing, far-off gunfire and missing sweethearts, I decided to complete the beach walk the rustlers had so rudely interrupted. It would be a chance to see how Margaret was, and to take some sneaky ‘before’ photos of the huge white washed-up tree. Thoroughly pleased with that plan I made a few dinner preparations, and once the sun was past the hot middle of the afternoon, I locked up the house, whistled the dogs over, and attempted to attach their leads. They know what that means! Unfortunately it makes them so excited that getting the clips anywhere near their collars can be a major job.
“Come here, you silly boy,” I crooned to Manny as he lunged at me and then galloped off again. “You’re not making things easy,” I complained, pursuing him for a few steps and using that as a ruse to grab sideways for Dan’s collar instead.
“Good boy, such a good dog,” I told Dan, as he pranced up on his hind legs, bouncing as though he was on springs. I scratched the top of his head and stroked his ears, leading him over toward the gate once I had his lead clipped on. Was Manny going to be left out? Not if that treatment was on offer! I ignored him until we were right by the gatepost. Graham has screwed a handy big hook onto it so we can secure a lead there while catching the second dog. I hung the lead there and grabbed for Manny. Victory was mine. They never learn.
Off we went in the Focus, all the way down Drizzle Bay Road, around the bend past Drizzle Farm, and to the end where the old cottage is. There was no sign of the Mini, either parked outside or when I sneaked a glance through the garage window. So much for seeing how Margaret was – hale and hearty and out on the road, apparently.
The spaniels enjoyed a sniff around the yard – probably the scents from the big hunting dogs remained, and no doubt Pierre’s perfume, too. Seeing no need to go back to the public access track, I shortened my walk by taking Margaret’s route through the end of the garden and down the dry sandy slope where the scruffy maritime plants grew in ankle-grabbing abundance.
John might feel confident letting his shepherds run free but I knew from experience the spaniels could depart at speed in totally different directions so the leads stayed on as I walked along the firm sand as briskly as their questing noses allowed me to.
It took about ten minutes to reach the tree lying beached and bleached in the summer sun. I walked more and more slowly the closer I got, feeling silly about that, and knowing quite well David’s body had been gone for several weeks now. It was still hard to get that aerial shot out of my memory though. The absolutely distressing way he’d been displayed. The symmetry. The effect of a crucifixion.
The waves crashed and roared, and somewhere high above me at least one skylark trilled and warbled non-stop. How can such a tiny bird manage that much volume? I heard farm machinery, too. It was a really good summer – probably grass being cut for silage, or hay being bailed. Then, right by the fence dividing Drizzle Farm from the beach a huge green John Deere tractor rumbled to a stop. I hadn’t seen it until the last moment because of the way the beach sloped up and then the farmland levelled out.
The spaniels decided a good bark at the intruder was called for, and that’s probably what drew the attention of the driver as he climbed down from the high cab. It was Denny McKenzie, my old teenage crush, and now with a lot of silver threaded through his bright red hair. He looked shattered.
I raised a hand. “Denny.” And then thought to lower my sunglasses so he could see me better. “It’s Merry – Graham’s sister.”
He pushed his own glasses up and squinted against the bright light and the sparkling sea.
The spaniels continued to bark, and then suddenly fell silent as they found something smelly in the sand to investigate.
“Merry,” he said, scratching his head. “What brings you right along here?”
I was hardly going to tell him I wanted to sneak some photos of a tree where a dead man had been laid out. “I came to check on Margaret at the cottage along there,” I said, waving in the direction of the Point. “And then decided on a walk. Did Jim tell you about the kidnapping?”
“Not yet. Things on my mind. Catching up with the local happenings will follow ‘as and when’.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “He mentioned the wedding went off well.” I hesitated, choosing my words with care. “And that it was tiring for Lorraine.”
Denny slid his sunglasses on again, maybe to hide his emotions. “Tiring’s one way of describing it. She’s weak and weary. I think a wedding’s challenging under any circumstances, but when the bride insists on switching all the plans at a couple of weeks’ notice, and her mother’s critically ill, it’s… tough.”
“Denny, I’m so sorry.”
None of his eighteen-year-old glamor remained now. He was a middle-aged man with the worries of the world on his shoulders.
“But Fiji was nice?” I asked.
He ambled toward me and surprised me by putting a hand on a post and vaulting over the farm fence to the beach. Still athletic, obviously.
“Fiji was paradise. Hot, fine, green and beautiful. Everything the travel brochures say. The wedding was out on the sand, all of us barefoot, if you can believe it.”
“Would save buying wedding shoes,” I suggested with a grin.
He snorted at that. “The wedding shoes were already bought. Oh well, we’ll only be doing it once.” He took a couple more steps and stopped, scanning slowly from left to right. “What happened to the boy?”
I presumed he meant David Haldane. “No-one… really… knows. He just turned up dead on the tree. So Jim’s already asked you to get rid of it?”
Denny nodded, kicking at the sand with a scuffed boot. “I didn’t put him on the tree. That’s down to someone else.”
A prickle of awareness stole down my spine. David hadn’t been discovered until Denny and his family had left for Fiji. So…? “How did you even know about him?” I blurt
ed. I looped the spaniels’ leads around a fence post so they wouldn’t distract me.
He stayed silent for a few seconds. “Silly young fool,” he said.
“You knew he’d died? Before you left?”
“Saw it happen.” That was said very reluctantly.
So once again it looked as though I’d be phoning DS Bruce Carver. And once again he wouldn’t be pleased with me.
“But how?” I asked. “Who did it? While you’ve been away the Police have been combing the district for information. They’ve not made much progress at all, as far as I know.”
Denny kicked at the sand again. “He came along the beach on a dirt bike,” he said, staring into the distance and taking no notice of me. “All the way from Devon Downs, I reckon. Avoiding the roads. Didn’t want to be seen.”
To my horror Denny took a few more steps, planted his butt on the tree, and sat knees-apart with his hands hanging loosely between them. You could pay me a million dollars and I wouldn’t sit there. Euw.
His gaze wandered far away, up into the hills. “The kid had an old .22,” he said. “Taking pot-shots at rabbits, I think. Not that he’d find many along here. But the silly young fool was travelling with it loaded, slung over his shoulder on that bike. He pulled up when he saw me. I had the new tractor pretty much where it is now, and he stopped to admire it.” Denny looked across at the huge gleaming machine.
I hate to think how much a big beast like that costs, although probably not as much as Erik’s new Squirrel.
“So he hopped off and came toward the fence,” Denny continued. “Pretending he was the Great White Hunter, aiming the rifle at fence-posts, that tree trunk over there, imaginary rabbits. It never occurred to me either of us was in danger.” He took a long, slow breath. “And he tripped on a piece of driftwood. Not looking where he was going of course. Too busy sighting along the barrel.”