by C. A. Larmer
“It had nothing to do with me, honest! He just had to run and asked me to finish up. So I did. Not my fault he fled.”
“Why didn’t you mention him to one of my officers?” Indira asked. “He could be a major witness to the murder of Kat Mumford. You’re not covering up for him are you, Mr Walters?”
“No way!”
“All sounds a little shifty to me, hey, Jacko?” Her eyes were still firmly on the young barman.
Jackson was also eyeballing him. “Yep, very bloody shifty.”
“Look, Brandon doesn’t normally bail. I don’t know what got into him. He’s usually dead reliable. He just got a bit jumpy when that guy started wailing about his wife. Maybe he’s got a phobia for blood, I don’t know. He just said he had to run and asked me to take over, said not to mention him.” He held a hand up. “He wasn’t being dodgy or anything. He just thought it would confuse matters, said it’d be best if I said I was running the bar.”
“He asked you to lie for him? You didn’t find that just a little bit suspicious?” Indira said, and he shook his head again.
“Maybe he had a hot date or something, wanted to get out before the shit hit the fan.”
“Except the shit had already hit the fan,” Jackson was saying. “He was a key witness. It was his duty to stay.”
“I didn’t know that, did I? You should talk to him about that.”
Indira smiled sweetly. “Which brings us full circle back to you. Any idea where we can find him?”
He went to shake his head, then must have thought better of it. He stubbed out his cigarette in the garden beside him. “Lives on Watsons Lane, few blocks away.”
“Got a street number for us?”
“Nah.” And then to their darkening expressions he quickly added, “Honest to God, I don’t know what number it is, but you can’t miss it. It’s the boarded-up cottage just behind Woollies.”
The boarded-up cottage was as deserted as it looked. If Brandon was there, he was not answering the doorbell, and after a few frustrating minutes, the two detectives gave up and returned to their car, feeling both disappointed and reenergised. The elusive barman had the smell of a serious suspect about him, right down to the sudden vanishing act.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” said Indira, handing over the car keys to Jackson this time.
He nodded, letting himself into the driver’s seat.
“Yeah, looks like we might not need to track down those cap-wearing pervs after all. This could be our guy. Why else has he suddenly vanished? And why’d he freak out when the officers arrived on the scene that night? You gotta join the dots. The bar he was working was pretty close to where all the action was happening. He was the one who was pouring the champagne that night. Our victim had an open glass of champagne.”
“You think he slipped something in? Then had his merry way? Or tried to?”
“Maybe. He was certainly in a position to do all the above. We need that bloody toxicology report.”
“I’m onto it.” Indira reached for her phone and looked up the number for the lab.
“Pull rank and tell ’em to pull their finger out,” Jackson said.
A few seconds later, Indira was in a heated conversation with someone in the pathology department. After a few feisty words, she placed a hand over the phone to block her voice, telling Jackson, “They tell me they would pull their fingers out and their toes as well, they say, except they’re caught up doing your overdose.”
“My what? Why?”
“Came in first.”
“Yeah, but it’s not urgent. That’s an open-and-shut case. He was a habitual user, no suspicious circumstances.”
“Still, it’s protocol.”
“Tell them to shove their protocol. Tell them the detective in charge has given them permission to put that one on the back burner and focus on this case.”
As Indira returned to the call, Jackson couldn’t help wondering why his boring old overdose was taking up so much time.
“Okay, they’re promising results by this time tomorrow.”
“What? Why not first thing?”
“Apparently they have lives.”
“Pity we can’t say the same thing about Kat Mumford,” was his gruff reply.
Chapter 13
Alicia was slumped over her desk, struggling to focus on the digital layout on the screen in front. It had been a long day.
She kept coming back to the night of the crime and a throwaway line that was just on the tip of her tongue. It was something that Eliot Mumford had said to his wife, at the bar if she remembered right. Something important, she was sure of it. She just couldn’t quite remember.
“Penny for your thoughts, sweet pea?”
That was Ginny, the office receptionist who was decked out in designer couture today, her black eyeliner uncharacteristically subtle, classy satin pumps on her feet. One of Arial Publishing’s women’s magazines was trialling her in their beauty department, and she was determined to make a good impression.
“I think they’ll care more about your copy than your Manolo Blahniks,” Alicia had told her when she’d first twirled in front of her desk earlier that day.
“Oh this stuff really counts! You don’t know because you work on lame magazines that nobody under the age of sixty-five wants to read.”
“Actually, get your facts straight, Ginny. Nobody of any age wants to read them, which is why I’m now writing digital content for all these inane websites. Apparently, everybody reads online these days.”
Ginny was now leaning over Alicia’s screen, inspecting her latest work. “Oooh vegan celebrities! I love veganism. Pity you can’t eat meat though.”
Alicia went to laugh, then realised Ginny was not joking. She turned back to the screen. “Well, it’s just as well because there’s no meat in the story.”
She waited a beat for Ginny to appreciate her pun, and when that didn’t happen, she continued. “It’s just like everything else online, all just fluff. These days four hundred words counts as an article. When I first started writing, that was a photo caption.”
Ginny snorted and began mimicking an old lady’s voice. “Back in the good ole days…” Now she laughed. “You’re so hilarious, Alicia, you’d think you were a hundred and five! Okay, so I have a very important message for you.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, can you believe they’ve got me back on phone duty? As if I haven’t got enough on my plate.”
“Message please, Ginny.”
“Right, well, that hunky policeman boyfriend of yours rang.” She dropped her head to one side. “Does he kind of remind you of Matt Damon from The Bourne Identity?”
Alicia wasn’t listening. She was grappling for the mobile phone in her handbag, wondering why he hadn’t called, until she realised she had forgotten to charge it.
Damn it. She couldn’t seem to get the hang of modern technology.
“He’s kind of got that rough, good-looking action hero thing going on,” Ginny was saying.
“Ginny! Focus.”
“Oh, sorry, um, he’s ditched you for the night.”
“What? Really?”
“Yeah, bummer, hey? He says, and I quote”—she read from the message slip in her hand—“‘Will make it up to you, I promise.’ That’s it.”
Alicia slouched in her seat. She had been looking forward to catching up with Jackson tonight, not only to deliver the results from her breakfast meeting with the club but to find out how the case was progressing. She winced then. Here she was suspecting him of ulterior motives when she had one of her own.
“I’m sure it’s no biggie,” Ginny said, a tiny frown crinkling her otherwise flawless forehead. “He’s probably just heaps busy.”
“I know. I know. Thanks, Ginny. How’s the beauty gig going?”
Now Ginny deflated. “Hard work. They’ve made me run all over town, fetching clothes and cosmetics for shoots and stuff. My feet are killing me!”
Alicia didn’t
want to mention the fact that her designer heels wouldn’t be helping.
“Just between you and me, I’m quite enjoying sitting down for a minute, answering the phones.”
“Grass is always greener,” Alicia said.
“True. At least they do have fabulous freebies. You should see the skin products that come in from all the advertisers and sponsors. And we get to help ourselves.”
Alicia stared at her. “What did you say?”
“We get to help our—?”
“No, no! Sponsors! Oh my God, that’s it!”
Ginny looked at her warily. She had seen Alicia go into one of these sudden mental meltdowns before and knew to bite her tongue this time.
“Sponsors. That’s what he said. Now I remember.”
“Remember what?”
“Kat the murder victim. She was an alcoholic!”
Ginny frowned, wondering why Alicia looked so happy about that.
Lynette had the same look of bewilderment on her face that Ginny was sporting earlier.
“You’re going to have to explain it a bit better than that. I’m lost.”
Alicia dumped her bag and sat down at the kitchen bench, where Lynette was still tapping away at her iPad, the rich aroma of an Irish stew coming from a slow cooker behind her. Alicia wondered if she’d even left the house today and shot a worried look at Max.
“So remember when we were in the bar queue, during intermission, and the hipsters were having their barney.”
“Of course. They were arguing over champagne.”
Alicia held up a finger. “Correction. They were arguing over her drinking.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“Not really.” She brushed a hand through her shaggy blond hair, trying to recall exactly. “He said something like, ‘Come on, enough’s enough. Remember what your sponsor says.’”
“I don’t remember those precise words but, so?”
“So what did he mean by that? Was he referring to her AA sponsor?”
“Alcoholics Anonymous? Seriously? Isn’t she a bit young for that?”
“Wasn’t Drew Barrymore an alcoholic at like ten or something?”
Lynette contemplated this as she reached for a bottle of merlot on the kitchen bench.
“Dinner’s ready, want a glass?”
There was not a trace of irony in that question, but Alicia felt a little hypocritical as she nodded her head, then jumped up to take care of it while Lynette scooped generous ladles of the stew into two bowls, added sprigs of fresh parsley, then headed for the dining table.
As they ate their meal, Lynette said, “You know I have sponsors and I’m not an alcoholic.”
Alicia stared at her blankly, so Lynette explained.
“I now have two companies who want to sponsor my food blog. Eliot Mumford could have been referring to some paid advertiser or sponsor, you know, like a surf brand or a skincare range or something. She was fairly pretty. Could’ve been a model.”
Then, changing the subject, she said, “No hot date with your detective tonight?”
Now Alicia just shook her head, looking glum, and they finished their meals in silence before dropping the bowls into the dishwasher and heading for the lounge.
Alicia yawned and reached down to pat Max’s silky head.
“Did you walk him today?” she asked, and Lynette stared at her deadpan.
“No, I ignored him completely. Does he like to walk?”
“No need to be so sarcastic.”
“He’s had two walks. He’s just cranky because I wouldn’t give him the leftover lamb. I’m saving it for homemade kebabs.” She reached for the television remote. “So how does this AA theory of yours progress the case?”
Alicia wasn’t exactly sure. “I guess I just pass it on to Jackson, and he’ll take it from there.”
She watched as Lynette scrolled through various channels and gave it more thought.
“It could prove fruitful. Maybe Kat met a dodgy bloke through her AA meetings. Those gatherings must get quite intimate. They tell total strangers their life stories. Maybe someone there got a crush on her and wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“Bit of a stretch,” said Lynette, still flicking.
“Ah yes, but it’s the stretchy bits I like, you know that.” Alicia yawned again. “Looks like a dud night on the telly. Might grab a herbal tea and head to bed. You want?”
Lynette nodded, so Alicia made large cups of peppermint tea for them both, then carried hers up the stairs, Max at her heels. She waited as he curled his body into his plush pillow bed at the top of the landing, halfway between both sisters’ bedrooms. They had agreed long ago that it was the only fair sleeping place for their cherished pooch, although they both knew he snuck into one or the other’s bed occasionally, and left it at that.
As she settled onto her own pillow, her lamp lending a soft amber glow to her bedroom, Alicia couldn’t get the creepy images of the two men out of her head, so she did what she always did when she needed cheering up. She reached for an Agatha Christie novel, opened the battered cover, and was soon lost in the cosy plot.
********
Liam Jackson was even less convinced of Alicia’s AA theory than Lynette.
It was now early Tuesday morning, and he had shown up at Alicia’s door, three fresh croissants and takeaway lattes in hand.
“Lucky me,” she said. “Two tasty breakfasts in a row.”
She put her sister’s share aside, then led him and the bouncing dog out to the tiny back yard to catch up on the case without disturbing a sleeping Lynette.
Alicia loved that Jackson considered Lynette even though it was Alicia he had come to see. She loved that he always sought her sister out to say a quick hello, didn’t ignore her as she was ignored by so many of Lynette’s boyfriends.
Being the older, shorter, and far less gorgeous of the two sisters, she had gotten used to being eclipsed by Lynette, but Jackson always managed to be polite while making it crystal clear which sister he preferred in his orbit.
“Seems strange that the hubby never mentioned something as important as AA,” Jackson said as he made room on the old wicker table for the coffees and then sat down in a wooden chair. “Maybe it just slipped his mind.”
“You questioned him?”
“Not yet, doing that this morning.” He handed her a flaky pastry. “But Singho spoke to him at length on Sunday and again yesterday when he brought Kat’s folks in, and as far as I know, it was never mentioned.”
“How is he?”
“Still a mess, still in shock, as you would be. Singho reckons his pain is genuine, but she’s a lot less cynical than I am. She’s tough, Indira, but when it comes to victims of crime, she’s a total pushover. In any case, Eliot couldn’t provide any reason why his wife would be murdered. Said she was a model citizen, no enemies, loving family, the same old story.”
“Well, somebody didn’t love her. What did she do for a living again?”
“That’s a whole other can of worms. She’s what you call a YouTube star.”
Alicia scowled. “Why is that even a thing? It’s like fame is now a perfectly acceptable career choice.” She was thinking of the vegan stars she’d just finished writing about and of Lynette too. “Like it doesn’t matter why you’re famous, just make sure you have truckloads of followers.”
She placed that last word in finger quotes, and he laughed.
“Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
“I think I woke up in the wrong bloody era!”
He agreed. “You would have suited Agatha Christie’s day better. I can see you tapping away at your old typewriter, tweed suit on, pearls around your neck.”
“Thanks,” she said, adding, “I think.”
He laughed again, reaching for his smartphone. “So, yeah, Kat Mumford had some kind of interior design blog—or vlog I think they call it now—huge following apparently. Gets paid ads through that.”
“S
ponsors?” she asked, and he nodded.
She pouted. There goes her AA theory then.
Jackson was busily tapping at the screen. “The problem with Kat Mumford’s line of business is there’s no actual office, no colleagues, and all her fans are anonymous strangers online. Ah, here she is.”
He handed the phone across the metal table, and Alicia had a look at the vlog that was now showing on the minuscule screen. It starred a tiny blonde with flowing hair and a happy face. She was bubbling with excitement about some new “bespoke” chandeliers, steering the camera from her own perky smile to a high ceiling where a stiff-looking black contraption was hanging and back to her face again. Alicia had forgotten how pretty the woman was and how vibrant and full of life she had been.
“How epic is that!” Kat gushed, half out of the frame. “And just $3,999 from Bend & Vine! You can’t go wrong, guys.”
Alicia gulped. “Four thousand bucks? For a hunk of metal? I’d hunt her down too if I’d wasted that kind of money.” She looked up. “Sorry, that was a bit insensitive, but honestly, what planet is that woman on?”
“Planet Gen Y.”
“Okay, so let me get this straight. You think a follower might have become fixated with Kat and started stalking her? Maybe followed her to the park and grabbed the opportunity when the hubby moved elsewhere?”
“To be honest, no I don’t. Or at least I bloody hope not, because it makes our job a nightmare. But it’s a possibility we can’t ignore. Like I said, she had hundreds of thousands of followers, most complete strangers. Could be any of them.” He turned a little grouchy. “I don’t think people appreciate the dangers of the internet. They don’t realise how much they’re putting themselves out there, like bait for psychos. If you watch to the end of that clip, you’ll see Kat offers her email address, even a mobile phone number, should someone want to get in touch.”
“But no home address?”
“No, true, but a clever psycho could probably do a little sleuthing. Scroll through her other clips, check out her profile on Facebook. The woman has a gazillion selfies, all over her house, her back yard.”