The Agatha Christie Book Club

by Larmer, C. A.

  “I’d love to but, sadly, I’ve got a magazine to put together. Doesn’t create itself.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Claire, producing a compact mirror from her handbag and inspecting herself in it. “I’d better get back to work, too; sell a few frocks if I’m going to make the rent this week. It’s a pity though, someone really should pay brother Niles a visit.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Alicia. “I have just the person to do it!”

  “Oh fine, I’ll do it,” said Lynette that night over a chilli concoction that tasted a little like Beef Korma and a lot like Massaman curry. She was calling it Thailandia.

  “Get it? It’s a cross between a Thai dish and Indian?”

  “I get it,” Alicia replied, mid-mouthful. “And I’ll get more of it when I’m done, thank you very much. So, back to ‘fuck-knuckle Uncle Niles’ if you’ll excuse Holly’s French. You’re fine just popping down there, ordering a latté and having a quiet chat to the guy?”

  “Sure, I’ve got nothing better to do with my time.” She gave her sister an eye roll. “But why me?”

  “Well, you’re the obvious choice.”

  “Because I work in a café and can cook?”

  “Something like that.”

  The eyes rolled again. “I’m going to ask about his sister not how to flambé a crepe.”

  “Still you’re in the same circles, he might warm to a fellow-foodie better.”

  She snorted. “Okay, but let me make a few phone calls first. The Just Beachy sounds kinda familiar.”

  In fact the Just Beachy café was notorious in Sydney’s café society for being the longest running ‘train wreck’ on the lower North side. After chatting with her boss, Mario, that night, Lynette learned that it was owned by Niles Blakely and was due to go under many times over but was constantly being propped back up.

  “Mario reckons it’s just never gonna work—badly run, apparently, not great food, either. But somehow it keeps on keeping on.”

  “I think we have Barbara to thank for that. From what Wanda and Jake say, she’s been bailing her brother out for years.”

  “And now he inherits from her?”

  “If she’s dead that is.”

  “True, and we still don’t know that for sure.” Lynette dropped her fork to the table and sighed heavily. “I know you really thrive on all of this, Lis—”

  “Thrive’s a bit rich, Lynette, I’m not exactly thrilled she’s gone missing.”

  “Sorry, I’m just saying, are you sure you want to get involved? I mean, I’m cool with it, you know me. But you’re the one who gets stressy and starts imagining all sorts of gory shit. I just wonder whether this case might not be the best thing for you.”

  Alicia placed her own fork down and then picked up her wine glass, took a long sip and said, “I need to do this, Lyn. My imagination’s already run wild. You can’t imagine the hideous things poor Barbara has already been subjected to in my subconscious. Believe me, finding out the truth will most likely be a relief.”

  “Fine, fine, just looking out for your mental health.”

  “That’s an oxymoron when it comes to me,” she said, only half-joking. “So, about that second helping of Thailandia...”

  As Lynette returned to the kitchen, Alicia glanced at her watch. It was just after 7:00 p.m. and she was keen to know if there was more news of Barbara. She jumped up and switched the TV on in the adjoining lounge room, then returned to the dining table.

  “Mum and Dad would be most unimpressed,” Lynette was saying as she placed two half-filled bowls down in front of them. “Never mix dinner and TV, they always say—”

  “Shhh!” Alicia hissed.

  She’d just spotted Arthur Parlour’s face on the ABC news, and he did not look good.

  Chapter 13

  Alicia and Lynette grabbed their bowls and gathered around the TV set, watching, intrigued. Arthur was holding a press conference live from his Woollahra mansion, and was doing a fine job of playing the distraught and devoted husband.

  “I urge you, Barbara, please come home,” he was saying, staring straight into the camera. “Holly and I are extremely worried. We just want you home, love. We miss you terribly.”

  The camera then panned to a stern looking fellow who was standing beside Arthur. He was in his late 50s, bulky in a grey suit with an impressive handlebar moustache that was more bikie gang member than a police detective. At the bottom of the screen the name Detective Inspector Kenneth Ward appeared.

  “We ask if anyone has any information regarding Mrs Parlour and her whereabouts to please get in touch.”

  A police hotline number appeared across the bottom of the screen.

  “Inspector Ward, are you saying you believe something untoward has happened to Ms Parlour?” bellowed a male reporter’s voice from behind the camera.

  “I am saying we are most concerned for Mrs Parlour’s safety and ask for any help from the public we can get.”

  “Mr Parlour, how do you respond to allegations that you were seen having a fight with your wife just before she disappeared?!” screamed another voice and the camera swept back to the husband who suddenly looked rattled.

  Alicia realised that it was the first time since Barbara had disappeared that he looked genuinely worried.

  “I dispute that categorically,” he said gruffly. “My wife and I are very much in love and I am most concerned for her.”

  “What about rumours that you have been having an affair—” began another reporter before the Inspector stepped in.

  “That will be all for now, thanks folks.”

  He pulled a shocked looking Arthur back towards the house while the cameras jostled to follow close behind. Several burly police officers stepped in between them as the image cut off and returned to the anchor desk where a well-dressed blonde woman was leaning forward solemnly. Behind her left shoulder was a snapshot of Barbara and it caught Alicia’s breath. It looked nothing like her. Clearly taken back in the ’80s, it showed Barbara with a very short, cropped hairdo, fluffed up at the front, which left her looking rather stern and school-ma’amish. Not exactly the most flattering or contemporary photo Arthur could have chosen to give to the media.

  “We’ve just been watching a live press conference from the home of well-known banking identity Arthur Parlour,” the anchorwoman said, fiddling through some papers on her desk. “Mr Parlour’s wife, Barbara, has been missing since Saturday afternoon and, as we just heard, police hold grave fears for her safety. Um... are you there, Hannah?”

  The screen went blank for a split second before an ABC reporter appeared with the Parlour house in the background. She was pressing something to her ear and squinting into the camera.

  “Yes I am, go ahead, Fran.”

  “Did the police say anything more about what they suspect has happened to Mrs Parlour? Whether they have any other clues to her whereabouts?”

  “Not at this stage, no. They are not giving too much away but as you say, it is clear there are concerns for her safety.” The reporter glanced at some notes in her hand. “Mr Parlour did tell us off camera earlier this evening that he does believe his wife is okay and is hoping she will see the broadcast and come home. However it is clear from the police detectives that they’re not quite so optimistic.”

  “Alright, we’ll leave it there. Thanks Hannah.”

  As the news moved on to an unrelated story the sisters switched it off and returned to the dining table.

  “What was that about a quarrel before she left?” asked Lyn and Alicia shrugged.

  “That’s news to me. But his affairs are obviously out there in the public domain now.” Her eyes narrowed. “You know, you always see these distraught family members on TV begging for their ‘loved one’ to return, then, a few weeks later that very same person is being hauled away to jail... I just don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  Lynette took a mouthful of curry and considered this for a few minutes, chewing. “Did you get the impr
ession Arthur was talking directly to his wife there, urging her to come home? Like she’s in hiding somewhere. I hate to say this, but he’s either a really good actor, or he genuinely thinks she’s coming back.”

  “Well, as the reporter said, the cops sure don’t. Anyway, I’m glad to see he’s finally taking it all seriously.”

  “He has to, doesn’t he? Especially if there’s rumours circulating that he’s been unfaithful. This won’t help his state government pre-selection one bit.”

  “That’s what Wanda said. Maybe that’s why Barbara’s missing. Maybe she was threatening to tell the press about his carrings-on. Maybe he had to get rid of her.”

  Lynette was not so sure. “If that’s the case it hasn’t worked. Now the public not only know about his affairs, they suspect him of being a murderer. That has to be worse, don’t you reckon?”

  Alicia’s stomach tightened. Her sister was right. None of this was adding up and she didn’t like it one bit.

  *****

  Across town someone else had been watching the news broadcast closely, eyebrows twitching with delight. Arthur could say what he wanted, appeal all he liked but Barbara wasn’t coming home.

  It was now her time to shine.

  She turned and glared at Barbara’s mute face and then smirked, her top lip curling a little with unabashed glee. How lucky she had been! In her wildest dreams, she never would have expected this. Her ship had finally come in.

  Finally she was in control. She was Queen Bee.

  She snickered, then stopped suddenly and stared at Barbara again. A shot of fear coursed through her veins, tempering her delight.

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she hissed aloud. It’s not over yet. Not by a long shot.

  She picked up the gleaming pair of scissors she had found in Barbara’s sewing case, turned towards the older woman, and began to slice...

  Chapter 14

  The following morning, a Wednesday, was wet and dreary and Lynette couldn’t be happier. She knew the way beach cafes worked and the drearier the day, the less crowded the place would be, and all the more opportunity for her to chat to Niles.

  Dressed casually in a creamy pink T-shirt, dangly coloured beads and tiny denim shorts that only someone as leggy and flawless as Lynette could pull off, she borrowed Alicia’s Torana and drove across the Sydney Harbour Bridge to Balmoral Beach. A small, meticulously groomed bay on the swanky north side of Sydney, it didn’t hold a candle to Bondi Beach, she decided as she parked and made her way on foot along the esplanade. It was way too clean and boring.

  Several Nike-clad mothers jogged along the footpath, the latest three-wheeled prams in front, designer dogs on leashes behind. There were small groups of well-dressed families picnicking on blankets on the sandy grass, nannies watching over equally well-dressed toddlers at the pristine playground, and some oldies gathered on the beach, dripping from a recent swim. Occasionally, the odd tradesman wandered past, too, burger and coke in hand, wrap-around sunglasses covering his eyes, clearly killing time between plumbing or tiling or whatever job had lured him to this posh end of town.

  Lynette noticed that there were several eateries along the esplanade and, as expected, they were all relatively empty today. The Just Beachy was the last one on the block before the road ended and a large public park took over. It wasn’t hard to find. Lynette had already Googled the address on her iPhone GPS. She had also memorised a picture of the owner, Niles Blakely, so she’d have no trouble recognising him when she got there. Judging from the website mug shot, however, he wouldn’t be hard to find: he appeared at least a decade younger than his sister and boasted bright red hair and splotchy brown freckles; very easy to pick in a line-up, she thought.

  It was just after 10:30 a.m. and the breakfast rush would be over—hence the reason Mario had begrudgingly allowed her a few hours off—but this café was virtually deserted. There was just one customer, an elderly woman braving the elements at an outdoor table with the help of a light green cardigan and steaming pot of tea. Lynette chose a table inside and waited for a red-haired, freckly-faced 40-something to appear, which he did eventually, a dirty tea towel flung across one shoulder.

  Niles looked older than his web picture and like he hadn’t slept in weeks, grey bags under his eyes and his red hair spiking up in all directions. He had a deep, vertical furrow between his eyebrows that gave the impression he spent a lot of time immersed in dark, unhappy thoughts. One glance at Lynette, however, and the furrow miraculously disappeared.

  “Hello there,” he said breezily. “Wanna see a menu or just after a coffee today?”

  “An espresso’d be great, thank you,” she said and waited for him to return with it before launching in.

  “I know this is going to sound strange,” she began and his eyes lit up. “I’m a friend of Barbara’s and I was wondering if we could have a chat?”

  The light flickered out and the furrow returned. “Oh, right. You know my sister?”

  “Yes, and I’m trying to find her. You don’t happen to know where she might be, do you?” He stared at her curiously so she added, “She’s gone missing, you do know that, right?”

  Niles glanced around, noticed that his customer was preoccupied with the view, and said, “May I?” indicating the chair.

  She nodded and he dropped down into it.

  “’Course I know. The cops have been in touch and it’s got me worried sick. They’re asking all sorts of strange questions, like I’ve been hiding her or something. Ridiculous.”

  “So they’re still in the dark?”

  “Yep.” He looked her over. “What’s your interest in all this? You’re not a reporter are you?”

  “Oh no. I’m just one of a group of friends who are all very worried about Barbara.”

  She hoped he wouldn’t enquire further, would be embarrassed to reveal she barely knew the woman but she suspected that, like most brothers, he wouldn’t really know his sister’s friends intimately and would take that on face value. He did and was nodding.

  “Yeah, fair enough, it is worrying, eh? She’s been gone over four days now and it’s just bloody strange.”

  “So it’s not typical?”

  “Christ no.” He leant in closer. “I can’t help wondering what Arthur has to do with it all. You see him on telly last night? ‘My wife and I are very much in love’— what a load of bollocks! They couldn’t stand the sight of each other. You know what they were like.”

  Not really, she wanted to tell him but nodded anyway. “When did you last see your sister?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “About three weeks before she disappeared. Already told the cops all this. It was a Tuesday. She dropped down here to see how I was going, had trouble with her car, put it in to the local mechanic to get fixed, ran some errands and then she left again. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, she seemed normal. I spoke to her once or twice the next week and then, nothing. She’s just vanished. Totally bizarre.”

  “So you told all this to the police?”

  “Yep, wanted to know where I was when she did her vanishing act.”

  “When was that, exactly?”

  “Good question. According to Arthur, she took off sometime Saturday arvo and never returned. But no one quite knows. I mean, it’s not like anyone trusts anything Arthur’s got to say.”

  “You don’t like him much, hey?”

  “He’s a bastard, and that’s on a good day. Anyway, I told the coppers I was here, all day Saturday, and Sunday. Which I was.”

  “Oh, so this place stays open for dinner, too?”

  He looked at her blankly. “What? No, well, I mean, I shut up at 5:00 p.m. You probably don’t know cafés but—”

  “Actually I work at Mario’s in Paddington.”

  “Really?” He looked at her with renewed respect. “Oh, right, yeah, I know that joint, great risotto. Okay, so you know then that we don’t just shut the door and skip off into the sunset. I had to stay back and tidy up, do the till, check the s
tock, that kind of stuff. Apart from the cook, I usually have at least one girl on on weekends, but, well, things’ve been tight... Anyway, I didn’t get out of here ’til really late. Oh, hang on a minute.”

  He jumped up and raced outside where the customer was waving one hand in the air like she was writing a check. They exchanged words and a brief laugh before he returned inside to see to her bill.

  A few minutes later he was back. “Get you another coffee?”

  She nodded and, feeling as though she needed to justify her existence, ordered a muffin as well.

  “They’re a few days old so I’ll give it to you for nix,” he said, from behind the counter and she tried not to frown.

  No wonder his café was struggling. Mario would never just give anything away and he’d certainly never offer up old food. All it did was leave a nasty taste in patron’s mouths.

  Niles also made himself a coffee and sat down to join her. “They found her wedding ring you know?”

  “Really? Where?”

  “She’d left it at the house, by her bed.”

  “Maybe she had a fight with Arthur, threw the ring off and left; is hiding out until things calm down.”

  He shook his head. “If she did fight with Arthur and decide to leave him, she would have told me, she told me everything. I just can’t believe she’d walk out and not say a word. She just wouldn’t do that. And she wouldn’t leave her ring behind, I can give you the word on that. It cost Arthur a packet, she wouldn’t give that up without a fight.”

  “What if she...” Lynette hesitated, didn’t want to upset him any further but he understood where she was going.

  “Barbara didn’t top herself if that’s what you’re getting at. If she was that depressed she would have told me, but she never mentioned a thing. Last time I saw her she was as happy as Larry.”

  He began rubbing the back of his head agitatedly. “I’m a bit stressed, to be honest. The way the coppers were talking, it’s not sounding good.”