by Evans, Ilsa
‘It’s the only explanation that makes any sense.’
‘Hmm. Let’s go back to him being an arse. In what way?’
‘For starters he is – was an abusive husband. Ask anyone.’ I waved towards the neighbours, who were all gazing at us. Edward waved back. ‘Always yelling, drinking, even his kids avoided him. A real bully. And he used to toss rubbish into my mother’s backyard. She rang the police a few times.’
‘I see. About him?’
‘No, about the weather,’ I snapped, instantly regretting it as the detective’s eyebrows shot up. I continued mildly. ‘And about him.’
His eyes creased, just slightly. ‘So you’d categorise their relationship as … acrimonious?’
‘I think he proved that, don’t you? By lighting the fire!’
‘Well, that’s by no means certain, Ms Forrest. Let’s get back to their association.’
I opened my mouth to comment, and then closed it again. Beyond my mother’s backyard, Leon Chaucer emerged from the enclosed section of his veranda and leant against the railing to watch the activities taking place below. He was also a good-looking man, but in a very different manner to the detective. About fifteen years younger, tall and thin, with fine-boned features accentuated by a mop of floppy, Hugh Grant-style hair and a taste in clothing that had long raised questions about his sexuality. I dragged my eyes away, to the man still working in the remains of the garage. He had his back turned now, revealing the word Forensic across his overalls. It occurred to me that I was trying to convince the police that the relationship between my mother and the man whose body had just been discovered on her property was so bad that he might consider doing away with her. Local woman helps police with their inquiries. Implicates elderly mother.
‘Ms Forrest? Nell? Mrs Craig tells me there was an argument between her husband and your mother last night, and we know that the police attended at ten-twenty pm. Has your mother spoken about any of this?’
‘No, but if there was any arguing or whatever then you’re better off speaking to the neighbours. I don’t know much more than what I’ve said – that they didn’t get on.’
‘Any examples of this you might have witnessed? While visiting your mother?’
‘Oh, I hardly ever visit her.’ I realised how this must sound. ‘That is, I do see a lot of her, believe me, just not here. My mother isn’t really into visitors. Can’t stand them.’
‘I see. So does she get … angry?’
I stared at him. ‘If you mean is she likely to bop them on the head and stash their bodies in the garage, then no. Otherwise she would’ve run out of room years ago.’
He smiled, softening his face, and picked up his clipboard. ‘Thanks for your time, much appreciated. I might go have a word with the neighbours now, as you suggested. And could you let your mother know that I’ll need to schedule a chat? I’ll ring tomorrow.’
‘Sure. Ah, positive I can’t dash inside? Just to grab some things for my mother?’
‘I’m afraid not. But probably tomorrow.’
I refrained from informing him that if I had to wait until tomorrow, he’d have two bodies on his hand. I tightened my pelvic floor as he led the way back over to the crime tape, holding it high for me to pass underneath. He handed me a card as we parted company, him to head towards the group of neighbours, and me to join Lucy and Quinn. These latter two were still deep in conversation with the young constable, but broke off as I approached. No doubt discussing the merits of canned versus fresh fruit. He smiled at me even as he backed away, then said his goodbyes and escaped.
‘Hey, Mum, Scarlet and Ruby are coming up. Should be here in an hour or so.’
‘Here?’
‘I mean home.’ Lucy watched as the detective separated an eager Edward from the group by the footpath. ‘Not sure that’s a good idea.’
‘Oh well, it’ll save us needing to supply all the background. Speaking of which, did you discover anything with your canny interrogation of the constable?’
‘Huh?’
‘I’m hungry,’ said Quinn. ‘Can we get fish and chips?’
‘No. Now, I have to ring your aunt, and then I have to find a toilet.’ I squatted gingerly to scramble through my bag, quickly locating my mobile but not before both Lucy and Quinn had their own phones in hand and were already deep in texting conversations. I entered Petra’s number and then waited for some time before it was answered. The roar of traffic formed a backdrop.
‘Half an hour, my foot,’ said Petra. ‘Liar.’
‘I was caught up with the detective. You’ll never guess who the dead bloke is!’
‘Who?’
‘Dustin Craig! From next door!’
The reaction was all I could have hoped for, with a gasp from Petra and open mouths from both girls, whose fingers paused mid-text.
‘You mean that Neanderthal loudmouth? With the little girls?’
‘That’s the one. Apparently they had a fierce argument last night, and the police were even called. Then suddenly he’s dead and the house is on fire.’
‘So – Grandma killed him?’ asked Quinn, eyes wide.
‘Of course not.’ I glanced over at the neighbours; Edward was lecturing the detective. ‘My theory is that he set the house alight and got trapped.’
‘Unbelievable,’ said Petra. The background roar increased, then faded, as if a truck had driven past. ‘But I’d better go. I’m not supposed to be parked here.’
‘You’re driving? Ah … where to?’
‘To Majic, you twit. As if I’d stay down here and let you lot have all the fun. But I’ve only just left so it’ll be a while, and I suppose I’d better go to the hospital first. See you soon!’
I pressed end and dropped the phone into my bag. Both Lucy and Quinn were back in texting mode, no doubt regaling their social network with the latest developments. Status update: homicidal grandmother culls neighbourhood. I turned back to the house, thinking. So Scarlet and Ruby were on their way, plus my sister. And clearly Lucy had burnt her university bridges at least two weeks ago. I closed my eyes briefly and took a deep breath, letting it out as I gazed from pristine weatherboard to blackened cavity. It appeared I was about to have a full house. Unlike my mother.
Chapter Four
While I find your column amusing, I do find it sad that you clearly don’t appreciate the joys of your children. Children are a blessing from a bountiful God, and each moment with them is a precious gift. Besides they grow up so quickly, and then you’ll be fucking sorry.
When I was a teenager, a family friend gave birth to a baby boy that she named Jamie. Now this would have been unremarkable had she not already had a daughter called Amy, a situation which I found rather fascinating. I even asked her once whether the choice had been deliberate, and she replied, a little wearily, that she simply never aligned the two names until it was too late. How bizarre, I thought, never imagining that a few years later I would do much the same thing.
We had names chosen for our first child pre-conception: Scarlet Lillian for a girl and Nicholas Darcy for a boy. It was the second pregnancy, following so quickly, where the problems began. Darcy favoured Tara, which I thought made it sound like we were trying to recreate Gone With the Wind, while I had my heart set on Bronte, after my favourite set of authors. When labour began without resolution, and the end result was another girl, a little brown button who looked remarkably like her predecessor, a compromise was required. Inspiration was found in the colour of her cheeks. Ruby.
We submitted the forms post-haste, thrilled to have found a name we both liked. And by the time we realised that we now had two daughters who were a shade of red, it was a done deal. Nevertheless it would have been balanced out by the trio to follow had not the next child, already named Bronte Tara, not emerged with a full head of gingery fuzz that resulted in the immediate nickname of Red that persists to this day.
All of which meant that I had daughters named Scarlet, Ruby and Red. But we held firm with the next –
despite a surfeit of helpful suggestions like Rose, and Cherry, and Vermilion (the latter courtesy of my sister, who felt it held admirable potential for diminutives) – and gave her the nice non-colourful name of Lucy, after Darcy’s mother. The fifth and final we named Quinn, because this seemed clever. It even suggested that she may have been a little planned, instead of such a shock that we had barely recovered the ability to speak by the time she was born.
But that was over thirteen years ago and now the unwitting cause of that particular angst was holding forth in the living room, describing the condition of her grandmother’s house to her sisters. Scarlet was sprawled across one armchair and Ruby the other, while Lucy was nestled neatly in the corner of the couch. Quinn herself sat cross-legged on the floor. ‘So it was, like, totally trashed, the whole garage and all that side of the house. The passage, the bedrooms, the –’
‘Wardrobes,’ added Lucy, rather unnecessarily. ‘Hey, Scar, do you know a constable named Matthew? Or Matt? Matt Carstairs? He’s tallish, blonde. Sort of big-boned. Blue eyes.’
‘Believe it or not I don’t know everyone in the police force. Sounds cute though.’
‘And there was a big blue canvas thing over the garage area,’ continued Quinn. ‘Where the body was.’
Scarlet hooked one long leg over the armrest and let it swing. ‘We’ll go look tomorrow before we visit Grandma. But, Mum, then we’ll have to head off. I’m on nights.’
‘Well, it was nice of you to come up. Your grandma will be pleased.’
Ruby was frowning at Lucy. ‘Didn’t you have a big exam tomorrow?’
‘Really, Rube?’ Lucy avoided glancing in my direction. ‘Is that important, considering?’
‘She’s dropped out,’ put in Quinn helpfully.
‘What!’
‘She’s dropped out. She thinks it’s a waste of time because life’s too short and she might get breast cancer. Her friend had to have an anagram. YOLO, you know.’
‘Huh? I mean – huh?’
‘She means a mammogram, which is ridiculous,’ said Scarlet dismissively. ‘She’s just using it as an excuse. Besides, even if our family was prone to breast cancer, she’d be the last one to get it. Look at her chest. No boobs.’
‘Stop staring!’ Lucy folded her arms across her chest. ‘And I do so have boobs! Just because you’ve got them coming out your arse!’
Scarlet started laughing. ‘Awkward much! Thank god I don’t want kids – can you imagine breastfeeding?’
‘Just to be clear …’ Ruby cocked her head. ‘When you say she’s got boobs coming out her arse, do you mean they’re sort of fixed there, one either side? Or do you mean it’s like having worms, where someone has to shine a torch for them to pop out?’
‘You do a lot of that do you?’ asked Lucy smartly. ‘Shining torches on people’s arses?’
Fortunately the pizzas arrived before this conversation could continue, heralded by a rapid trio of hoots in the driveway. The delivery boy was already on the threshold by the time I opened the front door, with a finger poised at the doorbell. I paid him, thanked him, and carried the stack of boxes into the living room.
‘Mine’s the margherita!’ Quinn scrambled to her feet with the urgency of a youngest child.
‘There’s plenty for everyone.’ I lowered the boxes onto the island bench. ‘One ham and pineapple, one Aussie, one margherita and one meatlover’s.’
‘And mine’s the margherita,’ muttered Quinn, already prising lids open.
Scarlet jumped up, grinning. ‘Not if I find it first!’
‘Or me!’ Ruby grabbed Quinn and twirled her around so that she deftly swapped positions, then leant from side to side, blocking her sister from regaining ground.
‘Thought you wanted the margherita?’ asked Scarlet, locating and then lifting the entire box from the stack. ‘You’d better hurry!’
Quinn’s voice rose. ‘Don’t you take my pizza!’
‘Well, I hate to say this but I need the margherita.’ Lucy stretched, and got to her feet. ‘All the others have meat.’
I fetched a plate and selected a pizza slice from each of the remaining boxes. I left them still bickering, and complaining, and teasing, and retired to my bedroom. I put the plate on the dressing-table, beside my wedding photo, then sat on my side of the bed and flopped backwards until I was staring straight at the ceiling. A segment of spider web dangled from the cornice, wafting. From the living room Quinn’s voice could be heard, getting higher, and I knew that the eldest two were going that bit too far. As usual. It was hard to believe that one was a fully fledged police officer while the other was almost halfway through teacher training. I had a sudden image of her holding an armful of lunchboxes just out of reach, children scrabbling at her knees, and then I pushed it aside with more pressing matters surging in to take its place.
I knew that Dustin and Beth Craig had moved into Small Dairy Lane about five years ago, just before the birth of their second child, as part of a tree-change move. He had spent some of his childhood around the area and was at least ten years older, an engineer who was often absent with work. Apparently at those times their house thrummed with music and running feet and high-pitched giggles, while at others it was quiet, brooding, the sight of his car an effective do not disturb sign. And always, about once a week, there would be an eruption.
Even so, I would not have thought him capable of setting fire to a neighbour’s house. With questionable efficiency. I levered myself up and took a piece of pizza. It was the first food that I’d had since the morning toast, but tasted like ham and pineapple cardboard. I stared at myself in the mirror while I ate. The Botticelli muse of this morning was gone, if she had ever existed, and in her place was a middle-aged woman with tired eyes. I chewed slowly, which only served to add guinea pig cheeks to the equation. What were the statistics on women my age re-partnering? Getting laid? Being noticed?
I swallowed, and forced myself to focus on the important things. For starters, I needed to talk to Lucy at some stage, and I also needed to discuss logistics with my mother. Not just about staying here but about the repairs, and the insurance. The whole bureaucratic tangle that would no doubt tie me into knots also, by the time it was through.
And there would be more afternoons like this one just gone, where I twiddled my thumbs in the corner while the Richard III Society committee spent thirty-six minutes arguing over whether Mrs Emerson’s cheese puffs sufficed as a vegetarian option for the Christmas function. For the record, Mrs Emerson voted yes, while Grace June Rae and Fiona Ramage voted no. The branch president, who also happened to be the husband of the cheese puff aficionado, sat on the fence, a location which he might have cause to regret when he got home. Several members didn’t show, including Edward Given, who was no doubt still standing outside my mother’s house hoping for another interview.
‘Mum!’ Quinn’s voice had an urgency that had me instantly on my feet. ‘Quick! Grandma’s house is coming on after the break! Hurry!’
I tossed the pizza crust onto the plate. It bounced and landed in a bowl of ancient potpourri but I continued on to the living room. On the television, tucked into the corner beside the unadorned Christmas tree, was a smooth-faced brunette displaying an inappropriate amount of excitement over washing powder.
‘After the break,’ explained Scarlet, ensconced in the armchair with a box of pizza.
Leaning against the same chair was Quinn, with her own pizza, so clearly fair and equitable distribution had been achieved. I got a drink of water in the kitchen, keeping an eye on the television from over the island bench, and then came back to sit on the couch beside Lucy, who was eating an apple. She smiled.
‘Fond of fruit, are you?’ I asked.
‘Well, yeah. I am a vegetarian.’
‘Ssh! It’s on!’
‘Welcome back,’ said the middle-aged male newsreader. A small picture behind him showed my mother’s house, barely recognisable, beneath the words Murder in Majic. ‘In breaking news, poli
ce have revealed that a man whose body was found in the burnt-out garage of a house in the town of Majic was murdered. Larissa Wheatfield has the story.’
The screen flashed to a young woman standing outside my mother’s house, microphone in hand. The blue canvas was in place behind her but surrounded by many more people. Firefighters in their bulky uniforms and police with fluoro vests and several men in coveralls sifting through the rubble, masks over mouths. The reporter began talking. ‘Thank you, John. Yes, an overnight fire has destroyed much of this house in Majic, near Lake Eppalock, and left a family distraught.’ The camera panned out and a crowd of neighbours could be seen on the footpath, looking suitably distraught. There was a fire engine there as well, plus a darker station wagon that might well belong to the coroner. From the edge of the screen, Larissa Wheatfield continued. ‘An elderly woman rescued from the house during the height of the inferno has been taken to hospital in a stable condition, but sadly the body of a male was found after the fire was brought under control.’ The camera switched to a panorama of the house, from good to bad, finally pausing on the remains of the garage. The voice continued, but this time without Larissa’s image, and I guessed that this section had been added later. ‘Preliminary investigations indicate the fire was deliberately lit, and that some type of accelerant was used. And in news just in, police have confirmed that the man was already dead at the time of the fire, and they are now treating the case as homicide. As such, they are asking for anyone with information about this Majic murder to come forward.’
I was still staring at the television as the male newsreader filled the screen once more, having segued to the obesity levels of teenage girls. I blinked, but the words echoed. The man was already dead … was murdered.
‘Fuck me,’ said Ruby, and then whipped around. ‘God – sorry, Mum!’
I nodded, because for once she took the words right out of my mouth.
Scarlet was nodding as well. ‘Homicide! That’s really serious!’
‘Is that your professional opinion?’ asked Quinn. ‘Thank god we’ve got you!’
