by C. A. Larmer
“Do you know this man’s surname?” said Jackson and, when he shook his head, added, “Any ideas?”
“No. Trevor makes sure of that.”
“Did you see Brian at the film night in Balmain or anywhere in the vicinity that night?” Indira asked this time.
“No.” He brushed his beard. “You can’t really think Brian’s responsible? Do you think he killed my little kitten because of what I did to him?”
He looked appalled by the thought.
“We’re just checking all possibilities, Eliot. That’s our job. You need to think clearly for me now, please. Did you ever see Brian anywhere near your home, your business, anywhere near Kat? Did she ever mention running into him, anything like that?”
“No, I promise, nothing like that. God, if I knew he was lurking about, he’d be the one throttled, not my beautiful wife.”
“When did you last see Brian?” Jackson asked, and Eliot gave it some thought.
Like Zara, he recalled Brian attending AA about two Tuesdays back.
“And why haven’t you gone back to AA?” Jackson asked.
“How do you know I haven’t?”
“Just answer the question, Eliot.” This was Indira and she, too, was losing her patience.
“For God’s sake people. I just lost my wife. Last thing I need is to hear how Timmy’s daddy used to expect straight As when he was in high school, and how poor Zara never made the ballet ensemble and isn’t life hard. Boohoo. I just lost the love of my life!”
Indira nodded, giving him a sympathetic smile, but Jackson wasn’t feeling it.
“I would have thought they could help you through it,” he said.
“You don’t know shit,” Eliot spat back.
Indira stood up. “Okay, that’ll do it for now.”
She gave Jackson a nod, and he eyeballed Eliot a moment longer, then stood up and followed her back through the house and towards the front door.
At the doorway, Indira turned back.
“You do need to process all this,” she said. “Be sure to get some help before it’s too late.”
“You let him off a bit lightly,” Jackson said as they strode back to their car.
“The man’s right, Jacko. He’s an alcoholic, and he just lost his wife. I don’t think he needs us to beat him up when he’s doing a pretty good job of that already.”
“You’re just defending him because he attacked that violent Brian,” Jackson said and knew he’d gone too far.
She railed on him, her eyes fiery. “I do not condone vigilante justice, Jackson. You know that. Never have, never will. Eliot should have come to the police with his suspicions, not beaten that guy up. For all I know, that’s what caused his wife’s death. Brian might have taken out his anger on Kat.”
“But we don’t know that, do we?”
“No, we don’t! Which is why I left the victim’s husband alone and am heading back to the office to see if I can find some actual evidence. Okay?”
“Okay. I’m sorry. I just can’t warm to the guy. There’s something about him that gets up my nose.”
“Well, it must be very bloody clogged by now because you’ve said that about every suspect in this case. You know that, right?”
He plunged his hands in his pockets but did not answer.
“Come on, let’s get back to the office, and I’ll get you some tissues, see if we can’t blow a few suspects out of there.”
He smiled at her then, glad to defuse the tension and said, “Fine. But first can you drop me at the lab?” And to her curious glance he added, “I have to see a man about a dog.”
**********
Frank Scelosi was just peeling a set of blood-splattered gloves from his hands when Jackson walked in.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” he said, waving the clean hand around the lab. “It’s a rare day when we get one of you suits fronting up. I thought you preferred to read your autopsies online where the stench can’t infiltrate.”
“Actually I’m here for that package.”
“Package?”
“Yes, you know the one belonging to my overdose. Brian Donahue.”
He had a tingling feeling the Brian who’d recently had a hot shot of heroin on a lonely rooftop could be the same Brian who attended AA with Eliot Mumford. Zara’s description sounded spot on. Of course Brian was a pretty common name around these parts, and even if it was the same Brian, he didn’t know how that was going to progress the Mumford case. If anything, it wiped out a really decent suspect.
There’s no way Brian Donahue could have killed Kat Mumford for revenge as Indira had suggested. He was already dead of a drug overdose a good two hours before Kat was strangled.
Still, Jackson didn’t like coincidences, and he was determined to find out. He was wondering whether there was some kind of identifying object among Brian’s possessions, something to prove his membership to AA. He knew both Zara and Eliot could probably identify him from his licence photo, but he was hoping to circumvent that.
“Sorry, mate. I handed Mr Donahue’s things to a courier this morning,” Scelosi was saying. “Probably being placed on your desk as we speak.”
Jackson growled. “That’d be right.”
“While I’ve got you,” Scelosi said, washing his hands at the sink. “I’ve got something interesting to show you.”
Jackson braced himself as Scelosi dried his hands then pulled on a fresh set of gloves and reached towards what looked like a chocolate milkshake.
********
The book club was gathered in Perry’s living room, devouring gourmet pizza. All except Missy, who was there but insisted she’d already eaten, triggering looks of surprise from the others, and Anders, who gave no excuse and simply bailed for the night.
They had been meeting almost daily yet still had so much to discuss, starting with what Zara had told Alicia over coffee that day and ending with Zara’s insistence that neither of the cap-wearing guys from film night was Bully Brian from AA.
“Or at least that’s what she told Jackson,” Alicia added.
“That doesn’t mean Brian from AA wasn’t at the film,” said Perry. “We never met him; how would we know? He could have been sitting anywhere in that audience, keeping his head down so Eliot Mumford didn’t spot him, then seizing the chance to kill Kat when Eliot moved away.”
“Seems an overreaction to being beaten up,” said Claire.
“Not at all. His ego was probably bruised the most, and he wanted to teach Eliot a lesson. Couldn’t take the larger guy out so went for his usual prey, a small defenceless woman.”
“You know, I was thinking,” said Missy, and Perry looked horrified. She smirked at him and continued. “There’s an awful lot of dodgy partners in this case. There’s Brian the bully from AA, there’s the pregnant woman’s ex—didn’t she say something to Jackson about being well shot of him?”
Alicia shrugged. “It sounded more like he was never really in the picture to start with.”
“Okay, but then there’s also that woman from the chemist. Remember, you were telling us about your night out with Jackson, the one where you went to the Jolly Codger?” She giggled. “You know that’s so similar to the name of the hotel in Evil Under the Sun, right guys? That one was called the Jolly Roger. Did anyone pick that up? I mean, what are the chances, hey?”
Alicia said, “That’s where the similarities end, Missy. I can assure you, if Poirot had stumbled into the Jolly Codger, he’d be lucky to get out alive.”
She giggled again at that. “Anyway, you and Jackson went and interviewed that woman from the chemist, Demi someone or other?”
“Danni Ligaro?”
“Yes! And remember how Danni mentioned an abusive boyfriend?”
“Yeees,” Alicia said slowly. “That’s right, said she’d just dumped him, he was ‘good with his fists.’” Her eyes widened. “What are you thinking?”
“Could the bully from AA, the one Eliot beat up, could he be the guy that Danni Liga
ro was talking about?”
Alicia stared at her, trying hard to recall if Danni had mentioned her ex-boyfriend’s name. She was sure she hadn’t. “It’s a major stretch,” she said eventually.
“Yes, except that Danni went to the film night too, didn’t she? She was the one who told Scotty and Davo about it. So we know she was at the crime scene at the time. Maybe she hasn’t really broken up with her ex, or maybe he followed her there or was going to meet his two mates. Whatever. Maybe he spotted the Mumfords and saw his chance. When Eliot moved away, he slunk down next to Kat and… Well, you know the rest.”
She finished with a bob of her curls while the rest of them looked at her with varying degrees of doubt.
Lynette said, “As far as stretches go, Missy, that’s like Downward Dog on steroids.”
“Still,” Missy persisted, “you could always mention it to Jackson, Alicia, and get him to check.”
Alicia recoiled at the thought. “I’m not sure Jackson’s too thrilled with all our snooping, guys, so might be best not to mention that for now. Speaking of which…” Alicia turned to her sister. “Any chance you can cancel the bar gig with Brandon tomorrow night?”
Lynette looked outraged. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Jackson has asked us to step back, to stay out of it, so…”
“So too bad! I’ve already committed to the shift, and I’m not in the habit of bailing at the last minute. Plus it sounds to me like Jackson and Indira are flapping about like beached whales and can do with all the help they can get.”
“Yes, but…”
“But Brandon’s still a viable suspect.” Lynette interrupted. “Yet you said it yourself, he’s lawyered up and they haven’t got a chance of getting him to talk.” She recognised the anxiety flickering behind Alicia’s eyes and softened her tone. “It’ll be fine, sis. I’ll go in very gently and just ask a couple of casual questions, see if I can’t help them cross another suspect off the list. Besides”—she smiled—“I could do with the extra cash. There’s a gorgeous pasta maker at Myers with my name written all over it.”
Chapter 31
The large wooden deck was bursting with revellers, some drinking in the extraordinary cliff view, most greedily quaffing wine and canapés, and Lynette was so swept off her feet she barely had time to blink, let alone query Brandon Johnson about his attitude to drunk drivers and whether he wanted to throttle any of them.
As she glanced across to Brandon now, watching him shovel ice into an empty carafe, she wondered if she was wasting her time.
Alicia had certainly tried to stop her from coming, fearful both for her sister’s safety and her boyfriend’s relationship with his boss. But it didn’t feel right to cancel on Brandon at such late notice, especially as she had already been told that Wally Walters had bailed and he was one man short.
And so she had kept her shift, joining Brandon and two female bar staff, popping corks and serving wine and getting the crowd sufficiently drunk, which seemed to be the directive from the publicity women who were pushing some foul-smelling perfume from an Italian designer that probably smelled better with each glass of vino.
It was only when the event came to a grinding halt at exactly eleven, and the PR ladies swanned off, shooing the drunken stragglers in their wake, that Lynette found her chance to have a decent conversation.
Surveying the mess around her, she grimaced. Brandon was not the best employer she’d ever worked for. Not only had he left them short-staffed, he’d spent half the night on his mobile phone and the other half flirting with one of the publicists.
“Thanks for doing this,” he said as he tipped the remains of a glass of wine into a potted plant. “You know I can’t pay you any overtime, right?”
It explained why the other staff had taken off at the first opportunity, leaving her all alone with the suspect. While she felt safe enough, Lynette knew that Alicia would have a fit and just hoped it would all be worth it.
She was really going to earn that pasta maker tonight.
Taking the wine glass from him, she quickly rinsed it before slotting it into one of the boxes, then sealing the box up.
“That’s fine,” she told him, “happy to help.” Then, keeping her tone casual, she added, “Did you see how much champers some of those women were throwing back? I hope they were all catching cabs home.”
There was no reply, and she looked up from the box to find him back on his phone, texting something. Perhaps he hadn’t heard her.
She tried again. “You know, it’s amazing how many people drink and drive these days.”
Brandon stopped tapping at his phone and stared at her a moment. His eyes narrowed slightly, and his jaw seemed to tense before he said, “Yeah, drink-drivers are scum.”
“Yes! Total scum! I had a friend who got done for drink driving, and I have to say, I was not sympathetic. Not one bit.”
He continued staring at her, his eyes now slits in his head. “What are you going on about, Lynette?”
She gave a quick shrug. “Nothing. I’m just saying…”
“Let’s just finish up, okay? I’m beat.”
She nodded, then reached for a dirty champagne flute and sighed. What was she going to do now? She could hardly push him on it or ask about his mum. That would be way too obvious; it would give the game away.
She sighed again. Maybe grumpy Anders was right all along. Maybe this was all just a colossal waste of time. It was certainly an arrogant attempt on her part to solve what was clearly a complex crime.
How delusional they all were—Missy and Claire, Alicia and Perry—thinking they could outsmart the dumb detectives. They had all dashed off on their little interrogations, and yet what did they have to show for it? Nothing!
The truth was, people didn’t miraculously confess to murder because a ditzy librarian or a shaggy-haired journalist, or yes, even a leggy young blonde asks the right questions.
No wonder Anders has lost patience with us all, she thought as she finished with the glasses and started folding tablecloths. We think we’re so clever, but really, we’re just wasting everybody’s time, including our own.
Then she thought about that pasta maker and reached for a broom.
It took another hour of sweeping and scrubbing and packing and stacking, and they finally had the bar cleared away and the veranda sparkling clean.
“Thanks for staying back tonight,” Brandon said as she helped load the last of the boxes into his van. “You can clear out now if you like.”
He was parked in the steep driveway to the vacant Vaucluse mansion where the event had been held, but Lynette’s car was about two blocks back, so she said her goodbyes, grabbed her oversized handbag, and began striding towards her Torana, using her iPhone light to help guide her way.
It was not until she was almost at her vehicle that she started scrambling through her bag for her denim jacket. The chill was setting in, but she couldn’t find it among her things.
Damn it. She must have left it at the house. Groaning, Lynette swiftly turned back.
She was just coming around the bend in the road, about ten metres from the driveway, when she heard Brandon’s voice. He was talking to someone. She wondered who it could be, certain that they had been the last two people on the premises. She looked up and saw that he was speaking into his mobile, his back to the street.
“Hey, that’s not my fault,” he said. Then, “I’ll do things much smarter at the next film night, I promise.”
Lynette stopped in her tracks.
Hang on, what?
“I’m telling you,” he continued, “there won’t be any cops, not this time.”
She felt a flash of curiosity followed quickly by a prickle of alarm.
Brandon must be discussing the night of the murder!
Lynette froze for just a second before ducking behind a parked Mercedes, her pulse galloping like a racehorse.
“Just bring the cash,” he was saying, “and I will make it happen.”
“Yeah… Yes! Stop panicking. I told you already, I’ll take care of it… She won’t know what hit her, I can promise you that.”
He laughed a little malevolently, then without warning, swung his head around and stared in Lynette’s direction. She flung herself onto the tar between the Mercedes and a Maserati that was parked behind it.
Had he seen her?
Was she about to be discovered?
There was a long pause, and then she heard Brandon say, “Look, I’d better go. I’ll see you on Saturday. Just give me the signal, and I’ll do the rest.”
There was another pause that seemed to extend forever before she heard the sound of a door slamming, feet crunching, and then a second door opening and shutting. The car engine roared to life, and she waited a few more minutes while she heard the vehicle reverse out of the driveway, correct itself and then zoom past her, a terrifying sweep of headlights before it whooshed away.
Still crouched between the cars, Lynette let out a long, tremulous sigh. Her heart was thumping, her pulse was racing, and her mind was telling her that the Agatha Christie Book Club might not be such a waste of time after all.
*********
“Oh my God, Lynny! Did he see you?” Alicia asked, alarmed when her sister recounted the incident back at their house soon after.
“Hope not,” she replied a little too casually for Alicia’s liking.
“I can’t believe you were there with him in a dark, empty street. All alone! What if he’d found you cowering behind the car? What if he’d…?”
It didn’t bear thinking about.
Alicia had stayed up waiting for her sister to get home, and it was almost one in the morning by the time Lynette pulled her Dr Martens boots off and accepted the herbal tea her sister was holding out.