Leong’s restaurant, Chewie’s, had remained closed since his death, and it was now unlikely to reopen.
The Farmers’ Market
Rebecca
Rebecca awoke on Sunday morning still exhausted from the events of the past forty-eight hours. The rest of Friday and Saturday had been a whirlwind of meeting deadlines and dealing with the ethical and legal minefield of being part of the story. Plus there were the competing demands of everyone at the Advertiser who wanted a piece of the action. Ever since the paper had restructured to emphasise its online and mobile offerings, there had been some confusion over who wanted what and when. Rebecca was being hounded by the mobile editor, the multimedia producer, the executive producer, the online producer, the picture editor—as well as her day-to-day boss, the deputy editor, Reg Cooper. Even the editor, Terry White, was leaning on her, demanding she write a first-person account of being part of a murder investigation. However there was one person who didn’t want anything from her. The police reporter, Dave Mendelson, was jealously ignoring her and dealing with his own ‘reliable’ contacts.
There was a reasonable degree of freedom as to what Rebecca could write for a feature article and what the Advertiser was able to publish, given no one had been charged as yet. Of course, Inspector Gary Jarvie counselled that nothing be published on any platform, as publishing any details of the case could hamper police investigations and potentially prejudice a future trial. Rebecca and the ’Tiser lawyers, of course, knew that Gary and the police could do nothing without a suppression order. The ’Tiser lawyers advised the police were unlikely to get one when the police weren’t even close to charging anyone. Even so, Rebecca was conscious of trying to do the right thing and balancing the public’s right to know and the police’s need not to be hampered in trying to catch and convict the killer.
She pored over every word she wrote, as did the lawyers. But in the end, she was pleased at the picture she painted of the dinner and of the gruesome discovery of Leong Chew’s head on a platter. The ’Tiser artist had even painted a Renaissance-like still life of a pewter platter, upon which was a likeness of Leong’s head, surrounded by roasted vegetables and a crystal decanter of wine spilling blood onto the folds of a stark-white tablecloth. The painting was framed by holly.
Rebecca knew the painting would be even more controversial than her feature piece, which it served to illustrate—and she was right. The ’Tiser was flooded with complaints about the graphic painting on its Facebook page, Twitter account, e-mail inbox, and letters to the editor. Terry was ecstatic.
It was now Sunday, traditionally Rebecca’s day off, and on a normal week, she would have had Saturday off as well. The Taste supplement was always bedded down by five o’clock Friday for publication the following Wednesday—they always worked a few days ahead for proofing. Rebecca normally had the weekend free to go to lunches and dinners and maybe even brunches. But this wasn’t a normal week.
Rebecca rose to open the pale-green curtains to her courtyard and popped back into bed, pulling her warm feather quilt up under her chin. She lay, slightly propped up on her pillows, looking out at the courtyard. The sky was a cloudy grey. The wind was moving the clouds across the sky quickly. It had rained overnight, and the limestone paving was still wet. Rebecca noticed the moss growing on the edges of the pavers but knew that once the warmer spring weather hit, the moss would recede and by the baking summer be gone completely, dormant until autumn, when it would begin its slow creep back. The wisteria vine lay in bare, twisted plaits over the cream-painted pergola, while her navel-orange tree was laden with ripe fruit. The neighbouring eureka lemon had a few dozen waxy yellow globes.
Rebecca couldn’t think of a better way to spend a late-winter afternoon than to light the living room fire and ensconce herself for a couple of hours in the kitchen making marmalade out of her very own oranges and lemons. She made a date with herself for that afternoon to do just that. After the marmalade session, she could imagine herself taking the latest and unfortunately the last P.D. James novel she had just downloaded and curling up in front of the fire with a full-bodied red wine.
But first she had promised her friend Penny Tavanagh that she would meet her at the farmers’ market at Wayville at ten o’clock for breakfast and a potter. The farmers’ market was probably the only thing that would tempt her out of her warm bed that morning.
Rebecca lingered a little in the hot shower, enjoying the heat on her back. She blow-dried her golden hair and then rugged up in a bone-coloured pair of moleskin pants, chocolate-coloured elasticised ankle boots, blue-checked shirt, and dark-blue woollen jumper, which had matching blue patches on its elbows and shoulders. On her way out and anticipating rain, Rebecca grabbed her yellow poncho off one of the coat hooks behind the front door in the hallway. She also picked up her large woven shopping bag.
Rebecca unchained her bike from the window grill on the front porch, placed her bag and poncho into the basket behind her seat, and rode off. The bike was cream with a tan seat and handlebar grips. Because she shopped frequently and only bought small amounts at a time, she tended to take her bike on her shopping trips to the central market, her local IGA, or the farmers’ market. If she felt like walking and had the time, she would take her shopping trolley. Rebecca rarely used her car.
Today it was the bike, as the Wayville farmers’ market was about a ten-minute ride across the south park lands. She would ride through the Walyu Yarta park lands bordering South Terrace and Greenhill Roads. The bike and walking path cut diagonally across the park and was lined by towering gum trees.
As Rebecca crossed the park lands she thought of how lucky she was to live in the city and how fortunate Adelaide was to have the park lands as a green buffer zone rather than endless concrete and congested roads. When she pulled up at the Wayville showgrounds’ Leader Street entrance she locked her bike to a fence and made her way to the breakfast van. Penny was sitting at one of the adjacent wooden tables. Rebecca greeted her and said, ‘You stay here and mind the table you have so cleverly nabbed, and I’ll order breakfast. What do you want?’
‘I’ll have the big breakfast, but make my eggs poached,’ said Penny.
Rebecca liked the sound of bacon, eggs, and tomato on ciabatta and decided to order the same, along with two coffees. Once she had ordered and was given a table number, she returned to Penny’s table.
Rebecca could see the concern in Penny’s eyes. ‘Are you okay, Bec? You’ve had one hell of a week, from what I’ve been reading. Very scary.’
‘Yeah, I’m fine. And thanks for your texts. Sorry I haven’t been able to talk to you until now. I’ve been swamped with work. Today is the first day since it happened that I have a bit of space to think about it from my point of view—on a personal level.’
‘Have you spoken to anyone? A counsellor? You’ve been through some pretty heavy stuff.’
‘Oh, for Pete’s sake, Penny, you know I don’t believe in that crap. Psychologists are loopier than their patients. No thanks!’
‘Okay, okay. I knew you would say that. But it would have been a shock, and you are wrapped up in it all. I’d be very anxious by now if it was me.’
‘Well, no offence, Pen, but you’re not me. I’m a tough old horse. No need to worry about me.’
Rebecca felt the need to change the subject from her mental state and knew Penny would be interested in her amorous interests. ‘You know one interesting thing to come out of the last few days? I’ve met up with an old friend of Rodney’s, and he is a bit of all right.’
Penny visibly lifted in her seat. ‘Tell me more. Who is he? Tell me everything!’
‘Okay—okay. His name is Gary Jarvie, and he’s a copper. Actually, he’s a detective chief inspector, and he’s in charge of this case.’
‘So you met him at the scene of the crime?’
‘Well no, the night before actually. I was at a special dinner at Wattle House for a few people involved in the food festival, when Gary came knocking at the do
or. He has a cottage up the road. The storm had blown a branch down onto his roof, and he was looking for shelter until the SES guys arrived.’
‘Well, tell me, what does he look like? Is he yummy?’
Rebecca couldn’t hold back her excitement. ‘Oh, God, he is just gorgeous! I can’t stop thinking about him. What am I going to do?’
At that moment, Rebecca saw Penny was distracted and looking at something over Rebecca’s shoulder. She couldn’t believe she had lost Penny’s attention.
‘Well, if you are not interested in my love life, I won’t tell you anymore,’ Rebecca said, sounding hurt.
‘Shut up, Rebecca, and have a look at the eye candy over there. The guy carrying the crate of apples. If this Gary guy is anything like the apple guy over there, I can understand why you’ve gone troppo over him.’
Rebecca glanced over to where Penny was looking and almost spat out her coffee. ‘That’s him! That’s Gary. Oh my God, what is he doing here? And why is he carrying a crate of apples?’
‘Perhaps he’s got a twin?’ replied Penny. ‘Failing that, I guess he has a right to shop like the rest of us, and I guess he likes his apples—he’s buying a whole crate.’
Gary disappeared into the hall, and both Rebecca and Penny wolfed down their breakfasts, keen to follow.
They hit the food hall moments later. It was packed. They had to muscle their way through the throng of shoppers, many lingering to taste free samples from stallholders, and pushed through the crowds for about ten minutes before they saw him. He was standing behind the Lenswood Apple stall. There was a large handwritten sign dangling above his head: LAST OF THE SEASON’S EVE APPLES—ONLY $5.99 A KILO.
‘What’s he doing selling apples?’ Penny asked. ‘I thought you said he was a detective.’ Rebecca placed a restraining hand on Penny’s arm, and the two kept an eye on Gary’s booth through the crowd.
‘I don’t know,’ Rebecca said. ‘I didn’t know he grew apples. I didn’t see any apple trees when I dropped in at his place on Friday morning.’ Rebecca frowned and yanked at the shoulder strap of her bag.
‘Hang on—you didn’t tell me about going to his cottage. Did you stay overnight? Don’t tell me you’ve already done the rompy pompy with him?’
‘Oh, do shut up, Penny. No, I haven’t done the rompy bloody pompy. And what a ridiculous term. I wish you would stop using it. I didn’t get a chance to tell you the rest of the story about the dinner and the next morning. I’ll tell you later.’ Rebecca looked flushed.
Just then Gary looked up and saw Rebecca. She gave an awkward smile, and Gary looked a little uncomfortable. Rebecca and Penny made their way closer to the stall. Rebecca said, ‘Good morning, Gary.’ She grabbed Penny’s arm forcefully. ‘This is my friend Penny.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Penny,’ said Gary, offering his large hand to Penny, who clasped it and held on to it for longer than was polite.
‘Likewise,’ said Penny.
‘So,’ said Rebecca. ‘Doing some undercover work?’
‘No, not at all,’ replied Gary, lowering his voice. ‘My mate has an apple orchard. His latest-picked Eve apples are almost out of season, and he needed help shifting them at the market today. I offered to help. He’s helping me fix my roof this afternoon. That’s the way we do things in the hills.’
‘Right,’ said Rebecca, thinking he sounded defensive. ‘Selling many?’
‘Oh, yes, we’ve sold about thirty crates so far—not bad for a few hours’ work.’
At that moment an elderly woman sidled up to the counter, looking like she wanted to buy.
‘If you can excuse me, I better press on with serving. I’ll see you later.’
Rebecca and Penny said their goodbyes over the back of the old lady’s head and let the throng of people move them along the aisle past the cheese stall and the grass-fed-meat stall before they could make their escape into the open air.
‘Well, he was nervous,’ Penny said.
‘Come on. Let’s shop,’ Rebecca said.
d’Arry’s Verandah
Rebecca thought it was very fortuitous that Francois Bacone was doing so well and looking to take on new staff. Within the week, Francois had picked up most of Chewie’s staff, with the exception of a few who had had enough of the restaurant trade and its ridiculous hours and were looking for other lines of work.
Jonathan was taking Leong’s death hard and that he hadn’t left his house for a few days. Rebecca had heard from a mutual friend that he was finding it difficult to sleep and was playing mournful music on his organ through to the early hours. The neighbours weren’t happy but had, to date, managed to restrain themselves from complaining, clearly knowing Jonathan was going through a bad patch. Thankfully the people of Adelaide were tolerant.
Rebecca understood Jonathan and indeed knew him a lot better than most. She had first met him about ten years ago when he was working at Chianti in Hutt Street, one of her favourite restaurants. They had hit it off from the start. It had been Jonathan who’d first told her about the olive harvest ritual that occurred each year in the park lands. She had begged him to allow her to come along, and they had been close ever since. In recent years, Rebecca had decided her organisation skills were superior to Jonathan’s and had taken over most of the organising of the olive harvest and picnic.
It was Tuesday morning, and Rebecca needed to drive to d’Arenberg winery in McLaren Vale to speak to the chef about his upcoming spring menu. She also wanted to taste wine that she planned to feature in an upcoming edition of Taste. Rebecca wondered if Jonathan might like to join her and have lunch at the highly acclaimed d’Arry’s Verandah Restaurant. It would be an opportunity to get him out of the house, and they could also go over the arrangements for that Saturday’s olive harvest and picnic. She knew that Jonathan wouldn’t have brought the olive gear out of his shed, not in his condition. She would have to sort it.
Instead of ringing—it would have been too easy for him to say no—she decided to surprise him with a personal visit.
Rebecca pulled into Jonathan’s gravel driveway in her aging BMW 3 Series. The driveway of the North Adelaide villa was in the shape of a horseshoe, edged by a sweeping lawn. It was bound on one side by blue-and-white hydrangeas and on the other by century-old date palms. As the front of the villa faced south and was in shade for most of the year, it had no verandah. Rebecca leapt up the three steps to the portico, the floor of which was covered in tessellated brown-and-cream tiles. The front double doors were painted a glossy green. Rebecca rang the doorbell three times before she heard the door unlocking and saw Jonathan’s face peer from around one of the doors. His eyes were red. He didn’t say anything to Rebecca; he just looked at her forlornly.
‘Can I come in, Jonathan?’ Rebecca asked gently.
Jonathan slowly pulled back the door, allowing just enough room for Rebecca to slide through. Rebecca had been in Jonathan’s house many times before, but the hallway always struck her as beautiful. It was at least four metres wide and ran for about seven meters before being bisected by a pair of glass-etched doors featuring the same pattern as that surrounding the front door. The floor had been laid with large black-and-white marble tiles, and large kentia palms in round copper pots sat either side of the glass doors. There was a deep-set cedar hallway table, and a round mirror hung above it. The door off the right side of the hallway was open and led to Jonathan’s sitting and organ room.
Rebecca followed Jonathan, who bypassed this room and instead led her down the second part of the hallway, through an arched doorway, and on to a modern extension that contained the family room, breakfast-dining area, and kitchen. The entire rear wall of this room was lined with floor-to-ceiling concertina glass doors that at any other time of the year would have been open, allowing a seamless transition from inside to outside. On this cold winter’s morning, the doors were closed. Normally a fire would be ablaze in the enormous stone fireplace that dominated the family end of the room, but Jonathan obviously hadn’t be
en up to lighting and tending to fires. Rebecca felt the warmth from the reverse-cycle heating.
Up until this point, Jonathan had not said a word, but he now managed to say in a rather pathetic tone, ‘Do you want coffee?’
‘Actually, could I have tea, please.’
Jonathan slowly shuffled over to the far side of the kitchen, picked up a retro green-and-tan kettle, and began his tea-making preparations. He set out two cherry-patterned cups and saucers and put three heaped teaspoons of loose-leaf tea into a matching china teapot he had preheated.
Rebecca watched his ritual, feeling like she couldn’t interrupt his Zen movements. He stared at the electric kettle and waited for it to boil.
Finally, Rebecca said, ‘How are you coping, Jonathan?’
He didn’t lift his head from a hangdog position. ‘Terrible. I can’t stop thinking of seeing Leong in that awful way. I can’t sleep properly. I can’t concentrate on anything. Even making this tea is an effort for me. I feel like my heart is breaking.’
Rebecca rose from the stool, walked up to Jonathan and hugged him. At her touch, he broke down and started to sob so violently that his shoulders bobbed up and down, and Rebecca found herself getting a little queasy. She’d been through a couple of heartbreaks herself and knew that the purging effect of crying always helped to relieve the tension.
After a couple of minutes, the kettle reached its crescendo and clicked off. In sync with the kettle, Jonathan stopped crying and released himself from Rebecca’s embrace.
‘I must get the water in the teapot while it is still boiling hot.’
Rebecca smiled to herself, seeing that Jonathan’s instinct to make a good cup of tea overrode his grief.
He manoeuvred a green woollen tea cosy onto the teapot. He had made the tea cosy himself and indeed had made several for friends. He’d made Rebecca one with red poppies. As Jonathan turned the teapot, allowing the tea leaves to brew evenly, Rebecca said, ‘I’ve come to take you out to lunch.’
The Popeye Murder Page 7
