by Polly Holmes
He eyelids snapped open. She knew exactly where he was going. After all, that was the direction Ryder Stone had been headed before she’d sprained her ankle. The puzzle was coming together with the mysterious stranger and Ryder Stone smack bang in the middle.
But how can that be? Kayne said Ryder Stone was in the clear. Was he wrong?
The click of the door glass door closing jolted her, and she peered through the door. “Damn, he’s gone.”
Ignoring the pain shooting up her leg from her ankle, she hobbled out of the ladies’ change room, careful to check that the coast was clear. She paused as a female giggle greeted her when she rounded the corner.
“Margarete? What are you doing here?” Emmerson Bancroft asked, closing her phone and dropping it into her gym bag. One eyebrow raised as her gaze scanned Margarete’s body from top to toe. “Please don’t tell me you’re here to work out with a sprained ankle.”
Margarete pouted. Emmerson was always a joy to chat to, and now—with her perfect, size-ten, sun-drenched, tanned body neatly tucked into her pink-and-purple-neon, designer gym outfit—she made Margarete wish she’d made better use of her membership. Ashton Point’s own Kate Moss.
“Emmerson, hi. Don’t be silly. How am I supposed to work out with this foot? I just came in because I thought I left my spare phone charger here the other day while I was working out.”
Emmerson pouted. “I see. You know, you really should pop by and chat. We’ve had some great fashions come in lately. I’m sure we can find you an outfit that will emphasise your positive attributes.”
Positive attributes? What’s that supposed to mean? Time to catch a murderer. “Sure. If you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be,” Margarete said as she side-stepped Emmerson and made a beeline for the door.
“I’ll show you positive attributes.” She said, her face etched with lines of frustration. She shook Emmerson’s comments from her mind and punched Clair’s number into her phone. “I’m positive I’m about to catch a murderer.”
Leaning against her car, she waited. Engaged. Her message bank kicked in. “Hi, Clair, it’s Margarete and I think I hit the jackpot. He was here, at Fab Fitness. At least I’m pretty sure it was him. He fit the type of description you gave us, and he had a black duffle bag. Something’s going down. Call me when you get this. I’ll try Charlotte.”
Margarete dialled Charlotte’s number. A sense of foreboding came over her as the battery symbol flashed on her screen. “Great. Engaged. I bet they’re talking to each other.” She was out of time, and battery power. “Charlotte, if you get this message, I’m pretty sure I found the guy. The key opened a locker at Fab Fitness which had a black duffle bag in it. He’s headed to meet someone at the lookout sign, you know the one down past Sabarcle Street after the Anglican Church? Meet—” She sighed and looked at the black screen of her useless phone.
As she turned the car engine over, she felt a prickle on the back of her neck. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
With each spin of the car wheels, she prayed Charlotte got her message. Confronting a murderer alone was not high on her bucket list. Margarete turned past the Anglican Church and slowed to a crawl pulling her car off to the side of the road and sat in horror at the site before her.
Scattered red and blue lights from a police car flashed, creating a light spectacle ahead. She could hear no sound, only the thump of her own heartbeat. A cold sweat broke out on her brow and the image of Clair or Charlotte in trouble fleeted through her mind.
“Oh no.” Her watery gaze gave the scene ahead a ghost-like feel. Margarete hadn’t realised she’d been holding her breath, but now it rushed painfully out. “Please don’t be Clair or Charlotte.” Refusing to let the images in her head take over, Margarete headed toward the commotion as fast as her injured foot would allow. She paused behind the police car out of sight of the organised panic, her heart catapulting against her ribcage.
Shoes, still and motionless jutted out from behind Robert as he made copious notes in his notepad. The upper part of the body was obscured by the bushes. But it was clear that they were male legs. Relief lapped at her stomach. “Thank goodness it’s not Clair or Charlotte.”
Margarete moved around the police car and crept toward the crime scene. The hard, distant, unemotional look on Roberts face twisted her gut until she realised, he was talking on the phone. “Yes, mayor. I’ll see that it’s done… I understand, Brad. I’ll sort it from my end. You just look after Sheryl.” She edged her forward just enough to gain sight of the body. She gasped, the image before her chilled her to the bone.
Robert spun at the sound and his eyes locked her to the spot like an arrow travelling at high speed. “I’ll get back to you,” he said abruptly ending the call and returning his phone to his pocket. “What are you doing here, Margarete this is a crime scene. Shouldn’t you be home resting?”
She glanced past Robert’s tall frame. It’s him. The same short, golden locks. The same pants and shoes from the gym. The same worn cardigan and the same death as Pierre. While this wasn’t the first dead body Margarete had seen, this new death struck ice-cold fear into her heart. They were wrong. Nathan was a victim. The murderer is still out there.
“I’m sorry. I was driving past and saw the flashing lights, so I stopped to help.” Margarete surprised herself with how easily the lie rolled off her tongue.
“No car accident, but it would be wise if you kept clear of the scene,” he said.
Something was missing. Her brow furrowed and it finally registered. Where’s the black duffle bag? Fraught with nervous fear, her gaze skipped from one place to the next in search of the missing bag.
“What’s wrong?” Robert asked, his police skills picking up on her nervous actions. “Do you know the victim?”
“No, sorry. I’m just nervous,” she said twisting her hands together at her stomach. “What if the murderer is still here?”
A calming smile eased across his face and he squeezed her hand in reassurance. “It’s fine. Clint and I secured the area and Kayne is en route as we speak. I promise there is no-one here except us and, well…” He paused and nodded toward the lifeless body, the stale smell of death permeating the natural scents of the Australian bush. “Mr no-name over here.”
“Oh.” Mr No-name? That meant they had no idea he was the fake Nathan Bates. She rubbed her temple. “I guess I should leave you to it. I heard you talking to the mayor. I bet he’s not pleased he’s got another murder to deal with before his term ends.”
“Actually, Brad is out of town. Has been for the past two weeks. He’s taken Sheryl to see the Crown Jewels,” Robert said, his focus back on his notebook.
“Out of town…the Crown Jewels?” Margarete’s mind whirled a mile a minute churning over this latest information.
If Brad and Sheryl have been out of town these past two weeks, then why did Mary-Jane buy cupcakes for Sheryl this morning?
“You know the Queen’s crown, in the Tower of London. It’s the one place Sheryl wanted to see and with her health deteriorating, Brad didn’t want to wait any longer. The deputy mayor will just have to step up.”
She plastered a cheesy fake smile on. “I’m sure you and Clint have this all under control. I think it would be best if I headed home like you said and rested my foot. I have been on it far too much today.” She turned and was hobbling to her car before he had a chance to respond.
Seconds later, a gust of wind howled up around her ears and the cry of seagulls overhead startled her. Not knowing where Clair and Charlotte were, her phone battery dead and her head pounding as if she’d been hit with a flying bowling ball, her only option was to head home and work out what else Mary-Jane had lied about.
Chapter Seventeen
“Why Mary-Jane? Why lie about the cupcakes?” Margarete pondered as she sat curled up in the corner of her L-shaped lounge. Her brain was fried. Her third black coffee hadn’t even helped soothe her frazzled mind. She’d been tossing information around in her head
for the past hour and a half, trying to work out what was fact and fiction.
Clair and Charlotte had been frantic when she’d finally managed to get a hold of them and until she knew for sure Mary-Jane was the murderer, there was no use raising their hopes with hearsay.
“This is useless. I’m not going to find out why this way.” Margarete snapped up her recharged phone and dialled the number for the chemist. Her hand fidgeted with the trim on the lounge cover while she waited. Each second that ticked by, only served to grow her impatience.
“Hello.” A breathless voice barked down the phone. “Oh, Terry Smith’s Chemist, can I help you?”
“Mary-Jane, is that you?” she asked. Unease crept into Margarete’s gut.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“It’s Margarete.” No need to be so rude, she thought. “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”
“Well, actually,” Mary-Jane muttered over her words.
Refusing to be brushed off, Margarete’s back stiffened and she went straight for a home run. “Why did you lie to Clair this morning?
“I beg your pardon?” Mary-Jane asked in a flustery tone. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Margarete’s heart began to race. “I think you do. Why did you say you were picking up cupcakes for Sheryl, when they have been out of town for the past two weeks?”
The deafening silence was cut only by Mary-Jane’s blunt voice. “I did no such thing.”
Why are you lying? The words flowed from her lips as if she’d practiced them a hundred times. “Why lie, Mary-Jane? I know for a fact Brad and Sheryl are out of town and I also know you told Clair you were picking up cupcakes for Sheryl. What are you hiding?”
Mary-Jane’s jarring words were unexpected. “Why, you nosy little cow. How dare you stick your nose into my business? What I do in my life is of no concern of yours. I don’t have to justify myself to you or anyone else, for that matter.”
All the muscles in her arm tensed and she gripped the phone so hard she feared she’d snap it in two. “If you lied about the cupcakes this morning, maybe you lied before. Maybe you lied about your alibi.”
A disturbingly chilling laugh blared in her ear. “Ha-ha, don’t be so ridiculous. I’d like to see you try and prove it.”
Why react so defensively? “You can deny it all you want, but I can sense you’re hiding something, Mary-Jane, and I’m going to find out if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Careful what you wish for.” Mary-Jane’s sinister tone was only superseded by another spine-chilling laugh. The line went dead.
Half of Margarete’s brain was screaming to call the police, the other half was pleading for more concrete evidence. She sat, flustered, her brain churning the conversation over. “It’s you. It has to be you, Mary-Jane. But how to prove it?”
Anger began to simmer in the base of her gut. Margarete flopped back on the couch, her body buzzing with adrenaline. Surely, she had enough information for Kayne to at least question Mary-Jane. Margarete’s gaze dropped to the open magazine on her lap, a name catching her attention. She surged forward, raising the article for a closer look.
“Houses to the Stars, by Morgan Archer.” She licked her lips and her throat began to dry as the impact of her realisation suck in. “Morgan’s career started at the ripe age of twenty, when he secured an apprenticeship with one of the leading interior design firms in Australia.”
He…Morgan Archer is a he, not a she. Mary-Jane killed Pierre and lied about her alibi. I finally have the evidence to prove it.
Margarete sat a moment, every muscle in her body seized like a broken-down car engine. Her chest began to heave, and she fought to keep calm, her fingers curling in horror. “Mary-Jane murdered Pierre… Oh my God, Mary-Jane murdered Pierre.” The woman on the video footage was Mary-Jane, she was sure of it. It all made perfect sense now, except for a motive.
Margarete was so deep in thought she almost jumped out of her skin when Billy Ray Cyrus’ voice roared to life. “Hello.”
“Margarete, I just wanted to apologise for my behaviour earlier.”
Margarete’s entire body stiffened. “It’s you, you murdered Pierre. The woman on the video footage is the same height as you. Why buy cupcakes for Sheryl when she and Brad are out of town? Morgan Archer is a man, not a woman. Which means at the time of the murder, you couldn’t have been in an interview with her. Otherwise, you would have known Morgan Archer was a man.”
Margarete willed herself to stay calm as panic ripped over her. Poking holes in someone alibi over the phone was probably not the best idea, considering she was home alone. It was now that she wished she’d waited for Logan to get back before she’d blabbed her thoughts out loud.
Mary-Jane’s commanding voice sliced through Margarete like a samurai sword. “As if you’d understand. Everything was spinning out of control and I knew you were getting close, too close. Now you know. I guess the only question is who are you going to tell?”
Margarete saw red. “The police, of course. Once I give my statement to Kayne, I’m sure he’ll want to question you.”
“Oh, dear, I really wish you hadn’t said that,” Mary-Jane said tutting. “I had hoped to convince you otherwise. I really didn’t want to add to the body count, but I guess you’ve made that choice for me now. All I can say is poor Logan. I hope you hadn’t planned a long life together.”
Poor Logan…. Long life? What is she talking about?
“What do you mean poor Logan? What has Logan got to do with it?” she demanded, bolting off the couch, her knees barely holding her body weight. An invisible hand crushed the air in her throat, and she fought against the urge to vomit. “Wh-wh-what have you done?”
Mary-Jane’s menacing laugh chilled her to the bone. “Unfortunately, Logan’s been detained…with me. Shame to see such a nice young man pay the price for your interference. You have a choice to make, my dear. Tell the police and Logan will be forced to enjoy a slice of the most delicious hazelnut and chocolate cake. You really shouldn’t make cakes with nuts in them, you never know who has an allergy these days. And unless you do as I say, that is exactly what’s going to happen.”
The blood drained from her face. Her knees buckled and she hit the couch hard, in one downward motion. She gasped. Her lungs were starved for air. “You can’t be serious. This isn’t some Hollywood crime movie. You took another human being’s life, Mary-Jane. You’re the one who has to pay for that, not Logan.”
“That all depends on you, doesn’t it? Unless you do exactly as I say, the body count is about to rise,” Mary-Jane snapped.
Margarete gulped around the lump in her throat and her pulse raced. “What do I have to do?”
Chapter Eighteen
Margarete pulled up just down from the café, her hands gripping the steering wheel. The briny sea breeze filtered through the air conditioner and lodged in the top of her nostrils. The street was sparse of tourist traffic, except for a few scattered cars dotting the length of the main street. A typical Tuesday afternoon in Ashton Point. She always closed the café early on Monday and Tuesday, due to the thinning people traffic. Today she was thankful Savannah hadn’t changed the schedule.
“Am I really going to do this?” she muttered, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
Mary-Jane’s wicked voice squirmed its way into her thoughts. If you’d like to see Logan again, bring your so-called evidence to the lookout down by Johns Cape. And don’t think of calling the police. If I see any sign of the authorities, I’ll personally hand-feed your boyfriend a slice of hazelnut cake.
Margarete scrambled for her phone and dialled Logan’s number one more time, her eyes catching sight of the interior design magazine on the passenger seat. Come on, pick up pick up. It went to the message bank. Again.
“Hi, you’ve reached Logan Hunter. Please leave a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
“Logan, I don’t know where you are, but I’m hoping
you’re still with your stepmother and as far away from Ashton Point as humanly possible. Call me as soon as you get this. It’s a matter of life and death. I need to know you’re safe. I have to know your safe.”
In a moment of brain malfunction, her fingers moved double time as she punched in Kayne Pendleton’s number. Mary-Jane had said no police, but she didn’t have to tell him the whole story. Just enough to pique his interest. Can I afford to take the chance? She slammed her phone shut, cursing herself for her temporary mental slip.
She grabbed her shop keys from her bag, pushed her phone into her back pocket and headed for the café. She might be about to step into the lion’s den, but she wasn’t about to do it without an EpiPen. If Mary-Jane did have Logan, the least she could do was come prepared. Savannah had insisted they get one in the first aid kit at work after her nephew in Adelaide was diagnosed with a nut allergy last November. “Remind me to give you a little something extra in your pay this month, Sav.”
The streetlights flickered on, illuminating the entrance just as she approached the door of the café. “Why close the blinds, Savannah? You know I’d rather keep them open for the passers-by to see.” A shiver of unease raced through her as she turned the key in the front door and pushed it open.
The sight before Margarete hit her like a tonne of bricks. She sucked in a sharp breath and her eyes widened at the utter state that greeted her. “Oh my God,” she said as her eyes darted from one upturned table to the next. Broken chairs strewn across the seating area as if they were nothing but firewood. Broken glass from the shattered display cabinets covered the floor like a layer of shimmering diamonds. Someone had violated her sanctuary. Margarete’s heart broke at the blanket devastation before her.
It seemed her feet moved en route as she edged her numb body inside. “I can’t believe this. Who would do such a thing?” She stopped in the centre of the café and her gaze plastered to the serving counter. Her eyes landed on the chocolate cake in the centre, which was missing a giant slice.
