by Morgana Best
“But surely you could have gone to the police,” I said. “You could have proven you were his mother.”
“No, Tom made me promise to not to,” she said.
That didn’t sound right to me, and I said so.
“All right, if you must know, Tom paid me a lot of money and I signed a contract,” she said. “So you see, I didn’t have a legal leg to stand on. If I ever tried to get my son back, Tom had evidence that he had paid me for him.”
I was incredulous. “You sold your own son to Tom Trent!”
She shrugged. “I needed the money. Anyway, I stayed away for a few years, like in the contract, and then I came back to town, but Tom did his best to keep Angus away from me.” A manic look covered her face.
“When did you tell Angus you were his mother?” I asked her.
“It was only a couple of years ago,” she said. “He occasionally came back to Australia to see his father and one day I told him the whole story. Or maybe not the whole story. I left out the part about Tom paying me for him, but I told him his father had threatened me. There was no love lost between the two of them, you understand, and I hinted that if anything were to happen to his father that he would inherit everything. Tom was a very wealthy man.”
“So how did you cook up the scheme to kill him?” I asked her.
“It was the fence,” she said. “When I found out Tom was trying to extort money from his two neighbours, I thought that would be a good time to murder him because there would be more suspects than only the community garden people. And I figured the police would think it too obvious that a gardener would actually murder someone with poisonous plants. I hoped the method of murder would throw suspicion onto the neighbours. Besides, nobody liked Tom.”
She advanced upon me with the rifle.
I backed away. “So what do you intend to do with me?” I was immediately sorry I had asked.
“I’m going to shoot you and then put you in one of these freezer cabinets,” she said. “Nobody will look in there for you. Nobody will know where you are. They won’t find you for ages.” She cackled. “Are any in use at the moment?”
“See for yourself,” I said.
Eliza walked to the row. The one closest was the one containing Mum. She pulled it out and then screamed at the top of her lungs. “Thelma! Thelma is in here! Did you murder your own mother? The police think she’s missing! She’s stone cold dead!”
Just then, Mum opened her eyes and sat up, her arms outstretched. “Swearing is not of God, Eliza,” she said in a deathly frightening monotone. “‘But now ye also put off all these: anger, wrath, malice, blasphemy, filthy communication out of your mouth.’ Colossians chapter three, verse eight.”
Eliza dropped her rifle and fainted. I ran over to the cabinet and helped Mum out. Janet’s coat was on the chair, so I grabbed it and put it over mum’s shoulders.
“What’s going on, Laurel?” she said. “I don’t remember why I’m here.”
“You were trying to help me because Eliza wanted to kill me,” I told her. “Eliza killed Tom Trent.”
Mum frowned, clearly confused. “Tom Trent is dead? Are you sure?”
“You were struck by lightning, Mum, and it affected your memory.”
Just then Basil burst through the door. “Laurel, are you all right?”
“Your timing is a little off,” I told him.
“Ernie came to get me. He said Eliza was the murderer and she was here to murder you. I called the police.”
I could hear sirens in the distance.
“Who’s Ernie?” Mum said.
Basil stared at Mum. “Mrs Bay, you’re back!”
Mum rubbed her eyes with both hands. “But I haven’t been away,”
Eliza’s eyelids flickered, and she made to sit up. I kicked her rifle away. “You had better go and let the police in,” Basil said to me. “I’ll keep an eye on Eliza.”
I didn’t need telling twice. Adrenaline was pumping through me, so I made it to the front door in double quick time.
“What’s happening?” Detective Prescott asked me.
“Eliza Entwistle is the murderer,” I blurted out. “She knew I was onto her because she heard me asking Pastor Green about her. She is Angus Trent’s biological mother.”
Both detectives gasped.
“I was in the preparation room just then and she came with a rifle to kill me, only my mother just arrived back and startled her. I was able to take the rifle from her and Basil’s there now.”
Both detectives appeared perplexed but followed me to the preparation room. Eliza was swearing profusely and my mother was sitting on a chair with her fingers firmly over both ears.
“When did you get back, Mrs Bay?” Detective Prescott asked her.
“Mum’s had a terrible shock, and she isn’t coherent,” I told him.
Thankfully, Mum didn’t speak. I pushed on. “Eliza confessed everything to me.”
“He deserved it,” Eliza said. “Tom was a horrible person.”
She continued to swear as the detectives led her away.
“Mum, I had better get you home and make you a nice cup of tea,” I said.
Basil shook his head. “We had better make her a cup of tea here, because she’s probably still a bit weak and unsteady.”
“Good idea.” I went upstairs to fetch a blanket from the apartment.
“I don’t know why I’m so cold,” she said when I wrapped it around her. “Where’s Ian?”
“He’s probably at the house with the new boarder. Speaking of Ian, I should probably call him.” I did so at once. “Can you come to the funeral home? Mum’s back, and she wants to speak to you.”
Ian didn’t take long to arrive. He was followed by Dylan, who was back in his old clothes.
“There’s the nice boarder,” Mum said.
Dylan looked confused. “Have we met?”
“Dylan was struck by lightning,” I told her.
“Yes, and he licked the moss off trees and started wearing women’s clothes,” Ian said.
For once, Mum was speechless.
Chapter 19
Sometimes I pinched myself—how did I manage to get through life without knowing how to cook? Well, after my recent camping disaster, I decided I needed to learn how to be self-sufficient. I mean, who knows when I might end up stranded in bushland again, smearing Parisian skincare cream on my burning bottom?
However, I knew I would never learn to cook unless I had more incentive than the nagging fear of setting fire to tents with flying marshmallows, which is why I invited Basil over for dinner.
“I’m cooking,” I told him proudly on the phone.
“Wonderful,” he replied. “Err, can you cook?”
“Obviously,” I replied. “I am practically a Macaroni-starred chef.”
“Do you mean a Michelin-starred chef?”
“I have to run,” I said, hanging up the phone. Honestly, Basil could be so dim sometimes, bless him. Why would anyone use Michelin stars as a rating system to score restaurants on their quality? Macaroni makes much more sense. After all, everybody loves macaroni and cheese.
The first thing I did was to remove the batteries from the smoke alarm. I knew this was what all the great chefs did before they cooked, because no one wants to hear all that beeping when they are filleting a loaf of sourdough or grilling a hamster or whatever it is fancy chefs did in the kitchen. Then I opened a bottle of wine, put on a cucumber face mask, and fell asleep in front of the television.
I awoke an hour later, much to my dismay. Now I had little time to cook dinner. In fact, I didn’t even have anything to cook. I didn’t even know what I wanted to cook, so I rummaged through the cupboards for a cookbook or magazine. It didn’t take me more than a minute to find a book on food to cook for a baby shower. I had no idea why that was in my apartment, but at this point I was not about to complain.
I took a swig of wine and paged through the recipes. Soon I had found a recipe for a meatloaf baby. “A mea
tloaf baby!” I exclaimed. Now, that sounds horrifying—I mean, meatloaf shaped like a baby. And it is horrifying. But I was desperate. And drunk. And I had a cucumber mask melting off my face. So I was not in the ideal state to use reason.
I grabbed a coat, the bottle of wine, and charged out of the front door. I needed things. Meatloaf things. And bacon. Because that’s what you used to clothe the meatloaf baby. I was so in the moment I didn’t even stop to help up the man who had staggered backwards at seeing my cucumber smeared face and toppled into a pyramid of cans.
“Meatloaf baby!” I called over my shoulder, as though this somehow explained my appearance and lack of concern for either the gentleman or the fallen pyramid.
Soon I was back home with the ground beef, egg, onion, milk, breadcrumbs, brown sugar, and mustard. I preheated the oven, combined all the ingredients, and shaped a baby on a lightly greased baking dish before adding his bacon clothes. The whole thing looked horrific, like something from a scary movie, but I was in far too deep to back out now.
I spent the next hour getting ready. I didn’t know much about fashion or beauty, but still I decided to straighten my hair. Only I didn’t actually own a hair straightener, so I lay my head down on the ironing board and went over my hair with the iron. It turned out better than I expected, except for the chunk of hair I accidently burnt off.
“What smells in here?” Basil asked after I greeted him at the door. He was carrying a bottle of wine, wearing that blazer I loved, and looking delicious in much the same way my meatloaf baby looked horrific. Basil visibly recoiled as I took the meatloaf from the oven.
“I’m sorry!” I shrieked. “It looks like a bad meatloaf baby!”
“What does a good meatloaf baby look like?” Basil asked. He recoiled from the baby as though the meatloaf baby was a mouse and he was a teenager with a fear of rodents. “We need to call Pastor Green right now, Laurel.”
“Does Pastor Green like meatloaf?”
“No,” Basil replied. “We need him here to pray.”
“Oh, it’s not that bad.” I said dismissively. “Maybe I did lie about being as good as a Macaroni-starred chef.”
Basil didn’t reply. Instead he tossed the meatloaf, tray and all, into the garbage. “I’ll fix this,” he said.
“It’s too late,” I replied.
“It’s never too late,” Basil said. “You stay here. Clean up. Put the batteries back in the smoke alarm. I’ll go to the shops and buy something we can cook together. Something not terrifying.”
Sighing, I nodded and wiped my brow with the back of my head. “Can you buy another bottle of wine?”
“Of course,” Basil said.
I waited for him to leave before slumping in a chair, and there I remained until he returned home. Sure, I had made a complete mess of the night, but I’d also caused Basil to go for a walk, and walks are good, right? Walks are good for the heart or whatever. In fact, I might have just saved his life by making him just that little bit healthier tonight. I was literally a hero.
And I’d continue my heroic actions by drinking the wine. Every last drop. Really, there was no point in Basil undoing all his hard, healthy work by guzzling down a glass of vino on his return. No, that wouldn’t do in the least. I might have to eat all of the chocolate in the apartment, too, just to make sure he wouldn’t feel any temptation. I was the perfect girlfriend.
“You’ve probably spoiled your dinner now,” Basil said when he returned to find me lying on the kitchen floor, surrounded by a hundred chocolate wrappers.
“I’m starving,” I lied. There was no point telling Basil I ate all of the chocolate to save his life. Men are not as logical as women. He would simply not understand.
“Save some for me,” Basil added when I opened the wine and drank straight from the bottle.
“The chef is not allowed to drink,” I retorted, and then I hiccuped. I was already having nightmares about the meatloaf baby and I had not even gone to sleep yet.
“Says who?”
“Chefs use knives. You can’t drink and use knifes. It’s dangerous. You could hurt yourself.”
Basil took the wine bottle out of my hand. “I am perfectly capable of cooking and drinking, thank you very much. I am making a cauliflower, pancetta and taleggio pasta bake.”
“Without the cauliflower?”
“With the cauliflower.”
“Gross.”
“It wouldn’t be a cauliflower, pancetta and taleggio pasta bake if I left out the cauliflower.”
“No,” I replied, “it would be better. How can I help?”
“You can help by getting out of my kitchen.”
“It’s my kitchen,” I protested.
“Not tonight. Go and watch some television.”
“Fine,” I huffed, even though I was pleased. I settled on the couch and flipped through the channels.
Every now and then I would hear Basil make a noise of frustration, but I knew his frustration would grow if I went in to see if he needed anything. Basil could be stubborn, and it made him feel like a little kid if I babied him. No, he would cook us a lovely cauliflower, pancetta and taleggio pasta bake—hopefully without the cauliflower—the meatloaf baby would be forgotten, and all would be well in the world.
An hour later, I sat at the table with Basil, who did his best to pretend he couldn’t see me picking the cauliflower out of the bake.
“This is brilliant,” I told him, trying not to catch his eye.
He leant across the table and took my hand. “It worries me,” he began, “you investigating murders. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
I felt my ears redden. “Nothing will happen to me,” I replied, “I have you to protect me.”
Basil kissed me on the forehead, and then he kissed me on the tip of my nose, and then he kissed me on my lips. “I would never let anything happen to you,” he said. “Even though you make terrifying meatloaf babies. Where did you even find a recipe for that?”
I almost told him, but then I snapped my mouth shut. What if Basil thought I was hoarding baby books? What if he thought I wanted to have a whole carful of Basil babies, and that scared him off? I cleared my throat and scrunched up my nose.
“It’s an old family recipe. The meatloaf baby. In fact, my mother even served a meatloaf baby at her wedding.” I added that last part for extra spice.
“Then it’s settled,” Basil replied. “When we get married, our wedding cake will be a meatloaf baby.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“No,” Basil replied. “I must insist. It’s important we continue family traditions. You’re sweet to protest, but I am afraid I have made up my mind.”
“A meatloaf baby wedding cake?”
“A meatloaf baby wedding cake,” Basil said firmly, and he smiled.
I smiled too. While it wasn’t a proposal, Basil had mentioned marriage.
What a week it had been. Things had seemed so dire. My mother and Dylan had both been killed by lightning. There was a case of repossession. I had set a whole church camp on fire, and stinging nettle had inflicted the most terrible pain on my bottom. A murderer had been intent on killing me.
Yet now all was good. My mother and Dylan were alive; my bottom was soothed, and the murderer was in custody.
Everything had been so distressing and alarming but then had turned around completely in a short space of time. I realised the old saying, ‘It’s always darkest before dawn,’ was indeed correct.
When things look their darkest, it means dawn is truly about to appear. And dawn always comes.
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