The Popeye Murder

by Sandra Winter-Dewhirst

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I know,’ she said dismissively. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to go now, Gary.’ She was now revelling in the freedom of calling him Gary. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No.’ He sounded a bit hesitant, almost as if he didn’t want the conversation to end. Rebecca had to admit that she liked that—but now wasn’t the time to drag out the conversation. She had places to be.

  ‘Okay, then. See ya around, Gary.’ Rebecca waited for a goodbye, and then she hung up, smiling to herself.

  Gary hung up the phone. He had been dying to tell Rebecca all he knew. He’d wanted to tell her that the holly was a match. He’d wanted to tell her that he had brought Jonathan Riddle in for questioning again yesterday and that Jonathan claimed to know nothing about how the holly had gotten into his shed or where it had come from. But Gary had not told Rebecca any of that—he couldn’t.

  He couldn’t tell her that Jonathan Riddle was now more in the spotlight as a suspect than ever.

  Rebecca looked at her watch. It was ten past seven, and she was now officially late. She hated being late.

  She drove to the olive grove and onto the park lands, where she stopped next to half a dozen other cars and the espresso van. Everyone had parked away from the olive trees so that they wouldn’t be in the way of the netting. Rebecca had the olive-collection license from the Adelaide City Council tucked in her purse, ready to be shown to any officious parking inspectors. The license gave her and the group permission to park their vehicles temporarily on the park lands while they picked the olives. In the last few years, Rebecca had taken over the job—previously done by Jonathan—of procuring the license. Jonathan’s interest in the olive harvest had diminished, and she had no doubt this had coincided with his intensifying relationship with Leong. Leong had made it clear he did the olive harvest under sufferance. Rebecca guessed Leong’s sufferance had had something to do with Francois Bacone’s involvement.

  The Advertiser photographer and self-confessed olive-oil connoisseur Jo Sharpiro had brought the trestle tables and fold-up chairs on the back of his battered Holden Ute. Jo was setting the tables up with the help of Lisa.

  Penny and a few of the others were mingling around the espresso van, waiting for their first order of coffee for the morning.

  Rebecca heard a rumbling and turned to see Jonathan pull up over the curb onto the park lands in his fire-engine red 1948 Ford F1 pickup. Jonathan’s father had bought the truck in the late 1970s and lovingly restored it to its former glory. Jonathan kept the truck, along with a number of other vintage farm vehicles, in an enormous shed at what had been the family farm—and was now his farm—at Oakbank in the Adelaide Hills. All the olive harvesting gear was in the tray of the pickup.

  Francois Bacone was there, having arrived with Dorothy Plant. Francois was carefully arranging his bacon, egg, and leek filo pies on serving platters in the middle of the trestle table. Dorothy had made her annual treat of apple-and-cinnamon golden-syrup scrolls. Dorothy took off the aluminum foil that was keeping the scrolls warm.

  Lisa wasn’t much of a cook, so her task had been to bring the crockery, utensils, and napkins. Lisa plonked her plates and bowls at both ends of the table, along with two ironstone cream jugs crammed full with forks, knives, and spoons. Lisa had brought paperweights to make sure the napkins didn’t blow away, as they had done in previous years.

  Nick Pecorino arrived, carefully carrying to the table a white porcelain bowl full of cut winter fruits. Into another large bowl, he emptied a nut-crumble mixture from its plastic storage container. Into the last bowl, he poured three large tubs of Udder Delights Yoghurt, specially bought from the Hahndorf artisan producer the day before. Wooden serving spoons were placed into each bowl.

  Once Penny had finished her first coffee for the day, she took out her basket of artichoke-and-feta tarts and placed it on the table, folding back the green-and-white checked tablecloth. Penny had also brought large sprays of wattle and old milk bottles for vases, which she artfully arranged down the table.

  ‘Okay,’ said Rebecca. ‘Looks like the food is up. Bring your coffees over to the table, and let’s get stuck in.’

  The group didn’t need much encouragement. Most were still groggy and on autopilot, not used to the early mornings. Everyone was keen to tuck in to some comfort food.

  They milled around the table, either going for the fruit, nut crumble, and yoghurt to start or piling their plates with tarts and scrolls. Once satisfied they had enough food on their plates for their first sitting, they sought out a seat at the table. The conversation was pretty sparse.

  Jonathan broke the silence with the inevitable reference to the weather. ‘We’re lucky with the weather. It rained heavily last night, but I heard on the radio this morning that we can expect a fine day.’

  ‘That’s good,’ answered Penny. ‘We’ve had quite a bit of rain this winter. I’m sure the farmers are happy.’

  ‘Farmers are never happy,’ responded Lisa grumpily. Rebecca grinned. Lisa wasn’t a morning person.

  Jonathan shot back, ‘That’s just not fair. I’m sick of farmers always being categorised as whingers. Where do you think all this food on the table comes from? And do you think it’s easy? The weather is not the only variable. What about the high price of the Aussie dollar affecting our exports—or the dumping of subsidised substandard food into our markets?’

  ‘Oh, here we go again,’ Jo said. ‘The annual lecture from our resident agrarian socialist.’

  ‘Okay, then,’ Rebecca interjected. ‘So how much oil do you think we will get from the olives this year? Anyone willing to wager a bet?’

  ‘Well, we got just over seventy-nine litres last year from the sixteen trees, and it’s been a good season. I’ll wager we’ll pull eighty litres this year,’ said Nick.

  ‘Why don’t we all put fifty dollars into the kitty, and the closest guess wins the pot? Is everyone in?’ said Rebecca. As no one objected, Rebecca added, ‘Lisa, can you collect the money, write the bets down, and sort it?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Lisa. ‘I always fancied myself a bookie. That’s why I went into banking.’

  With the distraction of collecting the money and taking down people’s guesses, the mood had swung for the better, and the hum of conversation around the table was now genial.

  Being that year’s chief organiser, Rebecca called everyone to attention once the breakfast began petering out, tapping the side of her plate with her fork.

  ‘Gidday everyone. It’s great to see you here at our annual olive harvest. The events of the last week have been very traumatic.’ Rebecca gave a sympathetic glance in Jonathan’s direction. ‘And I know some of us have questioned whether the harvest should have gone ahead today. But I’m very glad we have decided to come together and push ahead with the harvest. It might be a cliché, but life does go on, and as one of my favourite movies, The Shawshank Redemption, says, “You can either get busy living or get busy dying.”

  ‘So today we are here celebrating life—and what better way than by harvesting olives for cold-press olive oil? If Nick is right and we manage to extract eighty litres of olive oil from today’s harvest, that will be ten litres of olive oil each. And I know this olive oil is famous among the circles we move in. We give bottled olive oil as Christmas presents, we give it to our friends, and we take it to dinner parties. Our olive oil has a special magic about it that breaks down barriers and brings us closer to those we gift it to. Some of us design our own labels, and I know, Francois, that you use some of it in your restaurant to much acclaim. This event and the bounty this harvest brings is a wonderful annual gift. The harvest heralds the closing phase of winter, with the promise of spring and new life. I think now, more than any other year, we need our olive harvest.’

  The group spontaneously clapped.

  Rebecca hadn’t planned to speak any of the words she had just said. She had intended to announce a perfunctory list of what everyone’s job was going to be that day—but she thought the moment had needed
something more.

  Slightly embarrassed, she added, ‘Okay, that’s enough philosophising. Now, here is the work list for the day: Jo and Francois, you lay out the nets. As usual, we have enough nets to go under five trees. Once we have harvested the first trees, you will need to move the nets onto the next lot. Dorothy, Lisa, Penny, and I will use the sticks to knock the olives into the nets. Nick and Jonathan, your job is to pick up the nets and funnel the olives into the buckets. Remember, don’t overfill the buckets—otherwise, you will find them too heavy to lift into the truck. We don’t want strained backs. Once you have a truckload, you need to take the load to Maroudas Olives in Thebarton like in previous years. I’ve booked us in, and they are expecting you. Any questions?’

  Everyone seemed happy with their tasks, as they were mostly the same tasks they were given every year. The difference this year was that they were one man down without Leong Chew. It had been one of the few times of the year that Leong Chew and Francois Bacone had held a semi truce. This year, Rebecca reflected, Francois wouldn’t have to bother about how to handle Leong.

  While they waited for Jo and Francois to lay out the first of the nets, Rebecca helped Jonathan and Nick haul down the large plastic buckets from the back of the truck.

  ‘So, Jonathan, how have you been?’ Rebecca asked, hoping he would divulge what had happened when the police came to search his house for the holly.

  ‘It’s all been very peculiar. After our lunch the other day, the police came knocking on my door with a search warrant. The police had already been through the place top to bottom, so I’m not sure why they were back, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. They went through the house and shed, and I even saw them fossicking in the garden beds.’

  ‘Did they find anything?’ asked Rebecca.

  ‘As a matter of fact, they did,’ replied Jonathan. ‘I didn’t know it at the time, but they found some holly, which they took away for testing. I got a call from that Detective Chief Inspector Gary Jarvie yesterday, asking me to come to his office. When I got there, he showed me some holly he said they had found in my shed, and he said they’d had it tested—and it matched the holly found on poor Leong Chew’s head. I was damned upset, I can tell you.’

  ‘What did you say?’ urged Rebecca.

  ‘That I knew nothing about it, of course. And it’s true. I don’t. Leong dried all his herbs in the shed. I knew about the garlic and the chilli and a few herbs, but I didn’t know about the holly. Leong must have been drying it out, but I never noticed it. The police said it could be used for medicinal purposes. That was news to me. I told them I had no idea where he got the holly from.’

  ‘Right,’ said Rebecca, pleased that Jonathan had confided in her but a little uncomfortable that she wasn’t being as open herself.

  Suddenly, Rebecca had a bright idea about how she might track down the distinctive holly. ‘I know what I can do to track down the holly: I’ll put it in as a question in the Sunday Mail garden section.’

  ‘What, you think someone might respond if they know where it is growing?’ said Jonathan.

  ‘Of course. Our readers are better than Google.’

  Rebecca hoped the holly was as rare as the experts said and that there weren’t multiple bushes all around Adelaide. However, to progress this plan, Rebecca knew she would have to get a photo of the holly.

  ‘Did the police take all the holly?’ she asked.

  ‘No, they left a couple of bunches.’

  ‘What about if I come around later this afternoon and take a photo? I’d like to get it in tomorrow’s paper and online.’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Jonathan.

  Just then Nick Pecorino interrupted. ‘Come on, Jonathan. The first lot is ready for collecting.’

  As Jonathan walked away with one of the buckets, Nick said to Rebecca, ‘How about coming over for dinner at my place tomorrow night? We haven’t caught up since Leong’s murder, and there is quite a bit of detail we still need to sort out for the Australian Food Festival coverage.’

  It struck Rebecca as unusual to get an invitation for a meal at Nick’s place. While they had shared a meal many times over the years, they had always been at a restaurant or someone else’s place.

  As if reading Rebecca’s mind, Nick added, ‘As long as you don’t mind a salad and barbecue steak. I don’t do fancy at home. That’s why I don’t normally invite people home for dinner. It’s just that I know you are so flat-out covering these murders and doing the Taste supplement that if I don’t break my rule, I’m afraid I’m not going to get you exclusively to myself for a few weeks.’

  ‘Okay. I don’t mind simple. I quite like a barbie. What time?’

  ‘How does seven o’clock suit?’

  ‘Sounds good. I’ll bring a bottle of wine,’ said Rebecca.

  The olive harvest had its own rhythm. With everyone doing his or her individual job efficiently, each tree took about fifteen minutes to harvest. By ten o’clock, they were halfway through their sixteen allocated trees.

  Rebecca knew their sixteen trees were only a drop in the ocean. Over 7000 olive trees had been planted around the Adelaide park lands in the latter half of the nineteenth century, and about half remained today. Rebecca had often thought about extending her council olive permit, but the group always agreed that harvesting the sixteen trees was enjoyable. Any more, and it would become a chore.

  The small grove of trees in Gilberton that the group chose to harvest was a convenient location. The fact that it was only a couple of minutes away from Jo Sharpiro’s home in the adjacent suburb of Medindie was a major determining factor. There were no public toilets among the olive groves.

  They took a short coffee break at ten o’clock and scoffed the rest of the breakfast food before getting back to work.

  By one, the work was done, and everyone was feeling tired but contented.

  It was time for lunch. The late-winter sun was shining through scattered clouds. The men and women separated into their traditional roles. Despite Rebecca’s feminist ideals, she knew which battles to take on and which to leave. While the guys packed up the gear and Jonathan and Nick took the last of the olives to the processor at Thebarton, the girls got busy preparing the lunch. Lisa had already packed the dirty breakfast dishes into a large plastic tub and brought out fresh op-shop crockery and cutlery along with wineglasses.

  Rebecca put her spanakopita on the table. She also set out a bottle of the previous year’s olive oil and her special offering for the day, a bottle of aged white Leonardi Oro Nobile balsamic vinegar, imported from Modena, Italy. The white balsamic vinegar had cost her a small fortune. The mixture of olive oil with the vinegar made a great dip for bread.

  Penny put out her mini pork pies and jars of homemade piccalilli. Penny had brought a wheel of Brie and a large jar of pickled olives, which she placed on a handcrafted eucalyptus breadboard. She scattered some handmade fennel crispbreads next to the cheese.

  Dorothy went to her car and brought out both her and Francois’s offerings. Francois had cooked a rolled roast of chicken with couscous and pine-nut stuffing and prepared a haloumi, chickpea, and spinach salad. The salad was still to be dressed with vinaigrette dressing that Francois had poured into a screw-top jar. Dorothy had brought four freshly baked baguettes that she had picked up from the central market that morning. Dorothy had also made a mackerel pâté.

  Rebecca opened Nick Pecorino’s boot, looking for his contribution. The boot was crammed with old towels, rubber boots, and various tools, including a couple of large plastic containers. She picked up the plastic container closest to her and pulled off the lid. It wasn’t food. Rebecca was staring at a human skull.

  She closed the lid and quickly shut the boot. Rebecca looked around to see if Nick and Jonathan had returned. They hadn’t.

  Rebecca stood by the car and wondered what she should do. Clearly there was a skull in Nick’s boot. Did that mean Nick was a killer? Did that mean he was involved in murder? Rebecca wasn’t sur
e of anything except the fact that she was creeped out. She decided to pull herself together and go on with lunch as if nothing had happened, but to call Gary as soon as she could after lunch. She looked through the window of Nick’s car and saw an esky. She grabbed it, checked that it contained Nick’s picnic food, and brought it to the table.

  Everyone was getting seated as Jonathan and Nick arrived back from Thebarton.

  Francois and Jo had sorted out the drinks, having placed bottles of South Australian red and white wine onto the tables, along with bottles of sparkling mineral water. The white wine and mineral water had been kept cold in a couple of eskies packed with ice. Although, given the coldness of the day, Rebecca guessed there would be more red than white wine drunk.

  ‘So,’ said Penny, addressing Jonathan, ‘how many kilograms of olives did we harvest?’

  ‘This year’s bounty is 840 kilograms. That compares with 790 last year, so that will work out to roughly 84 litres of olive oil. Great result. As usual, the oil will take a week to press, so it will be ready to be picked up next Saturday,’ replied Jonathan.

  Lisa was quick to respond, ‘Just because we know how many kilos we have harvested, that doesn’t mean we know how many litres of oil we will get from the crush. We will need to wait until next Saturday to see who wins the $400. I’ll keep the money until then.’

  Rebecca noticed Nick eyeing the table. ‘So who was the good fairy that got my esky out of my car and laid out my produce so beautifully?’ he asked.

  ‘That would be me,’ said Rebecca, trying to sound equally unfazed.

  Was it Rebecca’s imagination, or did Nick flinch?

  ‘So, did you find it okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Obviously,’ replied Rebecca.

  Nick poured himself a fruity glass of Shaw and Smith pinot gris. Rebecca thought she could do with a drink herself and poured a glass of Di Giorgio cabernet sauvignon.

  As Rebecca lifted the glass to her mouth, she could smell the earthiness of the strong red soil that produced such rich and velvety red wines. Sipping the wine, she immediately felt more relaxed. She did her best to put the skull and its implications to one side, instead piling her plate with a scotch egg and a large slice of brie. She tore off a piece of baguette, scooped out some piccalilli, grabbed a few olives, cut off a piece of roast chicken roll—taking care to get a large amount of stuffing—scooped on a pile of the Greek and potato salads, and felt virtuous for not having touched the haloumi-and-chickpea salad or the mackerel pâté and veggie sticks—for now.