by Evans, Ilsa
The competition had also become an annual rite, with shopkeepers the length and breadth of the street vying with each other for the prize of two movie tickets and a photograph with the mayor. Unfortunately, all subscribed to the philosophy that bigger was better, resulting in a cornucopia of festivity that was inflated, often literally, and turned the main thoroughfare into an obstacle course that saw several shoppers injured every year.
Avoiding our own cafe, and a giant plastic Santa with disturbingly narrow eyes, I strode up the gaily decorated Main Street to a small hot bread shop that had recently opened in the arcade beside Svetlana’s Haberdashery. Majic Bakery: for all your majic bread! I ordered a chocolate mud muffin and a skinny cappuccino and took them through the arcade to the football oval out the back. Just across from here was the mansion that had spawned the entire town, now named Sheridan House and used as the community centre. It made a picturesque backdrop, with panels of red brick within creamy render and fat, forest-green domes crowning an assortment of rounded rooms on the second and third floors. I found a bench under a plump pine and settled for a brief hiatus, perhaps even some inspiration for my column, now due in under six hours.
‘Well, well, if it isn’t Nell. Look at that, I’m a poet! Responding to poetry in motion.’
‘Or sloth,’ I replied, shading my eyes to glance up at Leon Chaucer. He was looking very dapper today, in a snowy-white shirt with a light and dark blue diagonally striped tie.
‘You wouldn’t be hiding by any chance, would you?’
‘If so, I’m not doing a very good job.’ I smiled to take the sting from my words because I quite liked Leon. He was a relatively late arrival to the town, having established the Majic Art Gallery about four years ago. The gallery focused on Australian art, local in particular, with an exhibition each summer that generated reviews even in the major city papers.
He sat beside me, leaning back with his hands laced behind his head, squinting into the sunshine. ‘To think I moved a little way out because I thought it’d be more peaceful.’
‘Your mistake was shifting behind my mother.’
‘I blame the conveyancer. It should have been part of due diligence.’
I turned to him curiously. ‘Leon, how well do you get on? Does she give you any grief?’
‘Does she give me any grief?’ he repeated, clearly giving the matter some thought. ‘Not really. But she doesn’t like me much. Doesn’t like my music, doesn’t like my outside light, and certainly didn’t like my dog.’ His voice changed with this last, just slightly.
‘What happened to your dog?’ I vaguely recalled a hyperactive schnauzer that had spent the occasional day at the gallery.
‘Poison,’ said Leon flatly. He unlaced his hands and folded them on his lap. ‘Some bastard poisoned him while I was at work last year.’
‘Seriously? My god, that’s awful!’
‘I know. I reported it but …’ He shrugged. ‘He was only a dog, wasn’t he?’
‘Do you know who did it?’
‘I have my suspicions.’ He flashed me a rapid glance. ‘One of the teenagers up the end maybe. Or that fat fool on the corner.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ I took a sip of coffee. Yen had complained about that dog, and its barking, but would she …? Surely not.
‘How is your mother?’ asked Leon, as if reading my thoughts.
‘Oh good, good. Heading over to the house this morning to check out the damage.’
He nodded sympathetically. ‘It’s a mess. You know, I was sitting on my veranda last night, having a drink, thinking about how quickly life can change.’ He hesitated, blinked. ‘Especially for poor Dustin, of course.’
‘Of course. Did you know him well?’
‘No, thank god. I’m sorry to speak ill of the dead, but that guy was a bastard.’
‘Yes, that seems to be the general consensus.’ I took another sip. ‘Do you sit on your veranda most nights?’
Leon laughed. ‘Or, in particular, was I sitting on my veranda the night before last? And did I happen to see anything going on in, say, your mother’s backyard?’
‘Well … yes.’
‘Sorry, but no.’ He shot me a look of amusement. ‘The police already asked. That is, I was out there earlier in the evening and I even saw Dustin on their decking having a few drinks. He was in one of his bully-boy moods. Got the oldest girl to demonstrate her gymnastics. Handstands and all that. When Beth tried to stop it, he started carrying on about how he was paying for the lessons so had a right to see if he was getting his money’s worth. That was about nine or so.’
‘Were you still there when the police came?’
‘Nah.’ He shook his head. ‘I saw your mother come storming out, so I went inside. To be honest, I didn’t want to get involved. I mean, Dustin Craig and your mother? Do I look masochistic?’
‘No. Can’t say I blame you.’ A breeze washed across the oval, enveloped us for a moment, and then continued on. ‘I hear you’ve been promoted to president of the Wine and Cheese Society. Congratulations.’
‘I think it was a case of me being the slowest to say no.’ He stared at me. ‘I’ll find it hard to fill Darcy’s shoes, that’s for sure. We miss him there.’
I nodded, as always unsure how to respond. Should I apologise? Promise I’d do better next time?
Leon had lifted his gaze to my hair. ‘Have I ever told you I love your hair? It’s so … so wild. So unrestrained.’
‘Oh good. Unrestrained is exactly the look I’m after.’
‘Don’t sell yourself short.’ He dropped his eyes back to my face. ‘You have a lot more going for you than you realise. And sometimes … well, sometimes we have to lose something to set ourselves free.’ He reached out, clasped my hand briefly, and then rose in one fluid movement. ‘I’d best be off. Otherwise Fiona will start doing purchases and turn the Majic Art Gallery into the Majic Crap Gallery.’
I smiled, feeling a little foolish, my hand still tingling from his touch. I watched him stride away across the little gravel car park and into the arcade. Only after his tall, slim figure vanished did I turn away. A pigeon hopped across the grass, its head bobbing to search for abandoned crumbs. It was the type with an erect crest on the top of its head, which my offspring endearingly called ‘dickhead pigeons’.
‘Well, wasn’t that a nice thing to say?’ I asked the dickhead pigeon. It cocked its head, crest now diagonal. I rolled my eyes. ‘Okay, okay, yes, it was a little odd. But still nice. He meant well.’
I broke off a piece of muffin and threw it to the pigeon before storing the remains in my bag. Then I threw my empty coffee cup into the bin on the way back to work, keeping my head averted to avoid low-hanging decorations and conversation with passing locals. I only glanced up as I passed the Majic Art Gallery, but Leon was nowhere in sight. Instead his assistant Fiona, a blonde beanpole of a woman, was in the window pulling a male sculpture into position. Leaning forward and tugging the curve of the sculpture into her own body, she looked more like she was trying to mate than manoeuvre.
Back at the bookshop, Sharon was holding the fort with remarkable skill, although all eyes swivelled to me as soon as I entered. And that set the scene for the next hour and a half, just as it had before my break. Karen Rawlings from the community centre exemplified matters when she cornered me by Autobiographies & Memoir to describe how she once heard Dustin Craig call his wife a lazy bitch. ‘In full view of the entire supermarket, too! We were flabbergasted!’
Was that why you didn’t intervene? I wanted to ask, because you were so flabbergasted? Why you slipped into the next aisle, as fast as possible, and didn’t say anything, or call security, or pass her the phone number of the community centre itself, where there were pamphlets on domestic violence, and counsellors, and information on how Beth Craig could extract herself from a situation that, if a brief glimpse left fellow shoppers flabbergasted, must surely have been hell on earth? But I didn’t say anything, because neither had I.
At o
ne pm, Sharon stuck a sign on the door and closed the shop, then slid shut the dividing door from the cafe. She leant against the counter and regarded me silently, waiting for a comment.
‘My mother’s not going to be happy,’ I said obligingly.
‘Tough. It’s showing no signs of letting up and you’re off to lunch in a minute, so I’m buggered if I’m going to run the show by myself for an hour.’
‘Fair enough.’ I watched an elderly couple try the door handle and then peer, surprised, through the glass. I shook my head and pointed to the sign.
‘It wouldn’t be so bad if they just came for a gander and then left, but they’re all hanging around. There’s a few been here as long as I have!’
‘Well, you might as well have lunch too. Then we’ll just reopen at two. But I may have to leave early – what with everything else, I’ve still got my column to do.’
While Sharon was tallying the cash register, I got my bag from the cupboard and headed towards the sliding door. The cafe was also doing a roaring trade, with many of the bookshop customers having taken their conversations next door. Kim, the waitress, rolled her eyes as I passed, then concentrated on balancing a tray of bruschetta. I held the fly-strips aside to pass through and almost collided with my mother, coming the other way.
‘Why is the shop closed?’
‘Because of this.’ I gestured with my head towards the crowded cafe, and then kept moving forward, forcing her onto the footpath. ‘Plus Sharon would have struggled without me there, and she really needed a break. Be reasonable, Yen.’
‘When am I not reasonable?’
‘Nell’s not suggesting that you make a habit of it,’ said Petra, standing to one side. ‘Just that it might be advisable on this occasion. Besides, that creepy Santa there is going to put off more customers than closing the shop for an hour. I swear his eyes are following me.’
‘I think he’s designed to deter loiterers.’ I took a step away from the shop. ‘Anyway, I’m starving, so let’s go eat.’
‘Half an hour,’ Yen said grudgingly. ‘Then I’ll come back and get things on track. Too many customers? That’s a funny complaint.’
‘You’ll see,’ I muttered, leading the way up Main Street. The bookshop cafe was obviously out of the question so we continued past the council chambers to a nice little tavern that specialised in pasta and risotto, tucked away in an alcove. After ordering we settled in the back, behind a conga line of red-nosed reindeer. I fetched a carafe of water from the bar and poured glasses while Petra positioned her bag on the spare chair, with the Jimmy Choo label facing out.
‘Fake flowers,’ said Yen, fingering the verdant leaves of the carnations in the centre of our table. ‘So tacky.’
‘Yen, I was thinking … you know how you’ve always wanted to go to England? Maybe now would be the perfect time to do it.’
She regarded me steadily. ‘Two weeks before Christmas? The perfect time?’
‘No, after Christmas of course. And it was more about you not having anywhere to live. I mean of course you can stay with me as long as you like. Naturally. I just meant … ah, something to think about, that’s all,’ I petered off, then turned to my sister. ‘Pet! What’s happened then? Any news?’
Petra was smiling. ‘Well, insurance all went well. Under control. Plus the other bits and pieces. Oh, and Yen got the all-clear from the hospital.’
‘I can talk for myself you know.’ Yen moved the carnations to an adjoining table.
‘Okay then, how did you go with the police? What did they ask you?’
‘Just some daft questions about my sleeping patterns. I have very little faith in their ability to solve the issue. That Armistead man in particular seems to have decided it’s either me or Beth. Or perhaps us both, in cahoots. Stupid man.’
I nodded, not wanting to commit myself. ‘Do they know how he died?’
‘Cute though,’ said Petra musingly. ‘In that rugged, competent type of way.’
Yen ignored her. ‘If they did, they’re not telling me. But it seems to have been around midnight or so, because that’s the time they’re most curious about.’
‘My guess is that he was killed in our backyard,’ added Petra, ‘because according to Edward Given, that was where they were concentrating their manpower, while there was nobody next door, at the Craigs’.’
‘Of course!’ I stared at Petra, remembering the activity around the shared fence. ‘So there was no dragging the body over the fence! He must have climbed over himself!’
‘Yen’s theory is that he threw a full bottle over when he was having his tantrum, after the police came, and then ran out of beer later. So he was trying to retrieve it.’
‘Yes … that makes sense.’
‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ snapped Yen. ‘Is this salt shaker made of plastic? Maybe they’re going for a theme here. Op shop 1950.’
A waiter came over, bearing two bowls of Bombay risotto and one of lamb’s fry with bacon and scalloped potatoes. Petra and I stared at the lamb’s fry, and then exchanged an expressionless glance that spoke volumes. Like oh my god she’s driving me nuts you have no idea what this day has been like, and could you do me a little favour and sleep with the insurance people and/or the builders, so that they fast-track things?
I folded the parmesan through my risotto, and looked up. ‘Yen, could it have been her, do you think? Beth Craig?’
‘No.’ She sprinkled salt generously over her dish, paused, and then added more. ‘I’ve given it a great deal of thought, and decided it’s not possible.’
I waited for her to continue but she didn’t. ‘Uh, why not?’
‘Well if you must know, because the police attended at ten-twenty, spoke to Beth Craig inside the house, Dustin Craig on the decking, and then came over to my house to speak to me. I suspect Beth took that opportunity to put her girls to bed and then, if she followed her usual behavioural pattern, went to bed herself. Her idiot husband remained outside, flinging the occasional bottle into my backyard. He often did that; settle down for hours, just drinking. She would certainly not have gone outside to engage him. That would be ridiculous.’
Petra poured more water. ‘But what if he called her out? Insisted?’
‘It would have been unusual, but it’s still a far leap to having the two of them in my backyard, her killing him, and then dragging the body into my garage and setting it alight.’ She took a bite of the lamb’s fry, grimaced.
‘I still think she’s the most obvious suspect.’
I nodded. ‘Me too.’
‘Then you’re both fools.’ Yen laid down her cutlery and stared at her food.
‘But don’t you see that if it’s not her, then …’ I tried to find the right words. ‘Well, then the next most likely is –’
‘Me, of course. Which doesn’t change the fact that she didn’t do it.’ She stood, placed her serviette across her plate. ‘This food matches the theme here. Shabby shit. I’m going back to the shop, maybe do some business. Just for something different.’
I watched her leave, and looked down at my own food. ‘Actually, I thought the risotto was delicious.’
‘Me too.’
‘What are we going to do about her?’
‘Tie her up, leave her in the backyard, and hope it’s a serial killer?’
I laughed, and then slapped a hand to my mouth. ‘Pet, that is so inappropriate.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ Petra leant across and lifted the abandoned plate. An inch wide circle of salt remained. ‘Although she’s probably on borrowed time anyway.’
She put the plate down and we ate for a while, in silence. I wasn’t looking forward to returning to work, mainly because Yen was no doubt there to stay for the afternoon. She wouldn’t risk leaving Sharon and I alone now, just in case we did anything underhand like close up again. I took a deep breath and sighed.
‘Nell?’ Petra was staring at me, no smile visible now. ‘Do you think maybe … she did it?’
‘
I don’t know.’ I toyed with a sliver of chicken, pushed it beneath the rice. ‘I don’t see how she could have. I mean, he was a biggish guy.’
‘Unless they did it together.’
‘Yes, unless they did it together.’ I thought this through, and then frowned. ‘But if that was the case, why not just leave the body in the backyard? Why drag him into the garage and set it alight? And then go to bed and wait to be rescued? It makes no sense.’
‘But neither does it make any sense to have a random neighbour do away with him in Yen’s backyard, and then try and murder her while they’re at it.’
‘And me.’
Petra laughed. ‘You?’
‘Yes. Maybe that was it all along. It’s a plot to do away with me, because if I have to live with her for an extended period of time, then I’m going to fling myself off a cliff.’
‘Nah, you wouldn’t do that. You’re scared of heights.’ She pushed her bowl away and regarded me closely. ‘How are you anyway? Things getting any easier?’
‘Yes. And no.’
‘You need to get laid.’
I picked up the menu, examined both sides. ‘They don’t seem to have it listed. Perhaps it doesn’t go with their theme.’
‘I’m serious. You have to stop mucking around with that bloody doll’s house and get out more. Because you can’t really break the ties, move on, until you sleep with someone else. It’s like drawing a line in the sand.’
‘Yes, because the phone’s been ringing off the hook.’ I put the menu down, straightened the edges. ‘All those blokes. So persistent.’
‘Confidence. That’s the trick. And some effort on your part.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind.’ I stood my fork in the leftover risotto, and then watched it slowly keel over. ‘In the meantime, I might just concentrate on staying sane.’
‘Well, don’t forget I’m here for you.’
Ah, but you’re not, I thought, even as I smiled, because I knew she meant well.
Chapter Six
Could you please settle a bet? My friend insists that you are the same Eleanor Forrest who wrote a murder mystery called Midnight Only Strikes Once, published about twenty-five years ago. I say that you can’t be because that writing is so clichéd, not like your column. But she won’t take my word for it. A three-course dinner is riding on this!
