Nefarious Doings

by Evans, Ilsa

  I finished early, leaving soon after the book club dispersed. It had been an enjoyable session despite all, with talk of the fatal fire having segued neatly into that week’s reading choice of Kerry Greenwood and inner-city murder. And the club gave me a chance to absent myself from the main bookshop, where my mother was milking her audience for sales. There was something about her in trader mode, with beaming smile and sticky sweetness, that was even more unpleasant than bitch mode. Where at least what you saw was what you got.

  I stopped on the way home and stocked up on basic supplies, then staggered into the house bearing an armful of bags. Silence swelled within, lending the rooms an airy peace. The whiteboard had been moved to an armchair, indicating that the television had been used at some stage. I stared at the map and notations, but they didn’t tell me much more than I already knew. There were two main culprits, and neither made sense.

  After putting the groceries away, I turned on the computer and settled for the remainder of the afternoon. I started with a game of Tetris to loosen up before dealing with my emails, and then bought a miniature tri-fold fire screen and two copies of Midnight Only Strikes Once from eBay. I had the book on permanent saved search and my plan was to eventually buy up every copy in existence. However, for a book that had sold a mere thousand copies twenty-five years ago, the damn thing seemed to be reproducing itself.

  After one more game of Tetris, I worked my way around to the column, staring at the screen until it became a fluorescent blur with the cursor blinking accusingly in the corner. I opened my bits and pieces folder, where I stored aborted attempts and culled fragments, and perused the list of titles. Middle-aged spread, gender disparities at backyard barbecues, husbands who do the dishes once a week and think that equates to shared housework. I highlighted the last, and then poised my finger over the delete button for a moment before changing my mind. Let it stay.

  Maybe I could write about the Christmas function I had been pressured to attend last week, in town. Where I was the oldest female present and all the middle-aged male journalists seemed to gaze straight through me, like I was made of glass. I might as well have been wallpaper; a situation made undoubtedly worse by the fact that my carefully chosen burgundy and beige dress was the exact same colour as the wallpaper. But there was something else at play beyond bad luck. I had never been a raving beauty, by any means, but I’d always had my fair share of male attention. This invisibility was something new, or perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps it had been sneaking up for some time but I’d never noticed. Until this year.

  I shook my head, took a deep breath. What about what was happening right now? Surely I could extricate something from the debris of the last two days. I spun my chair, left to right and back again, then one full circle. That was when I noticed the little red answering machine light blinking on the phone by the filing cabinet. Possibly because my mobile was still set to mute, and likely to remain that way until I remembered to have someone change the ringtone. I pushed off backwards, rolling over to the filing cabinet, and pressed talk. The machine whirred, clicked, and began.

  ‘Hello, Nell? It’s Edward Given. Ned. Look, I just thought you should know there’re some ugly rumours flying around here. About your mother. And Dustin Craig. Thought I should pass them on, being old friends and all. Give us a ring and I’ll fill you in. Cheers.’

  I sagged a little in my chair. The machine clicked over but this time the caller hung up. Probably Edward again. The third call, however, was Uncle Jim, his deep voice distinctive enough to provide identification, because he certainly didn’t.

  ‘The hospital tells me your mum’s been discharged. Nell? Thought I might pay a visit?’

  There was a pause, as if he rather hoped someone would pick up, and then the call ended. Another click, and the next message issued forth in a throaty male voice.

  ‘You’ll get what’s coming to you, bitch, just wait and see. Both of you.’

  The machine clicked again, whirred, and continued.

  ‘Hey, Mum, it’s Red. Just thought I’d touch base and see if anything exciting’s happening down under. It’s freezing here, but no snow yet. I’m stuck at a conference in Bristol for the next few days. Bor-ing. Looking forward to coming home for Christmas. Love you.’

  The words slid cheerfully in one ear and straight out the other because there was no space. I stared at the machine as it rewound, finally reaching the end with the light changing to a steady red. After a moment I stretched out one finger and pressed play again. But the husky voice was identical, as was its message. And I still felt like being sick.

  ‘Mum! Hey, Mum?’

  I leapt up, shooting the chair backwards. It shot across the floor to rebound off the desk and then settle by the door. My heart was beating so fast it felt like I’d been the one doing something wrong. You’ll get what’s coming to you, bitch … Both of you. I took a breath, dragged it deeper, let it out.

  ‘There you are.’ Lucy appeared in the doorway, beaming. ‘Guess what? I’ve got a job!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve got a job! Full-time and I start tomorrow! See, I told you it’d all turn out!’

  I stared, trying to process this. ‘What about uni?’

  ‘Mum, I’ve been telling you. Uni’s over. It’s no good. It’s not me.’ She shook her head. 'I have to be true to myself.’

  ‘True to yourself? That sounds like your daft YOLO crap. Nothing but a cop-out.’

  ‘Oh, Mum. No, it’s not. I only wish it was.’

  ‘Ta-da.’ I swept one arm through the air, adding a flourish at the end. ‘Wish granted! All this rubbish is just another way of giving yourself permission to do exactly what you want.’

  ‘Instead of what you want? Is that what you mean?’

  All thoughts of the phone message had now been swept aside by frustrated fury. ‘What I want? Really? Okay then, yes, I do want you to get a degree, and I do want you to get a good job, and be successful, and financially secure. How amazingly selfish of me. So yes, you’re right. Clearly it’s all about what I want. It always is.’

  Lucy regarded me evenly. ‘I’m not going to talk to you when you’re like this. But before I go, I’d just like to say thank you. Thank you for being so supportive, and congratulatory, and for taking my buzz –’ she held up one hand, laid flat with the palm uppermost, then curled it into a fist ‘– and crushing it.’

  ‘Oh, and I’m not going to talk to you, either.’ I pushed the words past clenched teeth. ‘But before you go, I’d just like to say you’re an idiot.’

  Instead of answering she stared at me for a few moments, which was actually more effective. Then she turned and left, with a dignity that I would have found rather admirable if not for the fact I was so furious. What I wanted? Nothing at the moment was what I wanted. Half a childhood house, a mother who was the prime suspect in a neighbourhood murder, a sister who had conveniently relocated just far enough that she couldn’t quite be relied on, and now a twenty-year-old uni drop-out who no doubt planned on moving back home. Oh, and of course a husband who … my mind reared like a skittish horse, then galloped away. And no column. And anonymous threatening phone calls. And –

  ‘Did you really call Luce an idiot?’ asked Quinn from the doorway. ‘That’s a bit harsh.’

  I nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘Like, if we’re not allowed to call you an idiot, then you shouldn’t call us an idiot.’

  ‘I know.’ I took a deep breath. ‘How come you’re late, young lady?’

  ‘I told you I was going to Caitlin’s to study. What’s the point of me leaving messages on your mobile if you don’t ever check them?’

  ‘I do. I did. Whatever. Anyway, how was school?’

  ‘Yeah, okay. Griffin Russo says his mum says she’s too scared to sleep at night. What with a psychopath in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘Can I say that Lyn Russo is an idiot?’

  Quinn grinned. ‘Yeah. What’s for dinner?’

  ‘Crumbed fish. I’l
l get it started in a moment, I just have to make a phone call.’

  As soon as Quinn left, I went out to the entry and rummaged through my bag until I found the card for Detective Sergeant Armistead. Plus a handful of crumbled blueberry muffin. I used the phone in the study, shutting the door as I dialled. It rang incessantly before his voice kicked in, requesting callers leave a message after the beep. I obliged, making sure my voice was level and the details succinct. Menacing message, possibly a disguised voice, unknown provenance. As an afterthought, I sent a quick email to my editor, asking her to let me know whether there had been any nasty letters received at their end. Perhaps it was something to do with one of my columns.

  Out in the kitchen, I separated the fish fillets and began the crumbing process. There was nobody else around, although the television was now on. The news started so I found the remote control and turned the volume up a little, in case there were any developments. I felt a little ill, not just because of the nasty phone call, but because of Lucy. My children might infuriate me at times, but arguing with them was always disagreeable.

  ‘Are we having chips with them?’ Quinn wandered in, eyeing the fish with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

  ‘Yes.’ I pulled a bag of frozen chips from the freezer and dumped half onto an oven tray.

  ‘Has Grandma’s house been on again?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Quinn flung herself down on an armchair in the living room, giving me a flash of purple knickers beneath her school dress. I slid the tray into the oven, turned it on, wondered if the detective sergeant would call back tonight or tomorrow.

  Lucy came in and stood at the end of the island bench idly straightening some catalogues. Finally she looked at me. ‘Do you want a hand?’

  ‘No, thanks. All under control.’

  ‘Oh. Well, you know I could set the table.’

  I shrugged, dragging a fillet through beaten egg. ‘If you like.’

  ‘Ssh!’ Quinn held up a hand. ‘It’s on again!’

  The house was centre screen, although it seemed to be the same footage as yesterday with the flurry of investigation taking place. The male newsreader’s voice came over the top. ‘Investigations continue into the homicide and house fire at Majic, in country Victoria, yesterday, with police confirming that the victim was already dead at the time of the fire.’ Then Detective Sergeant Armistead filled the screen, with his name on a caption beneath, wearing the grim expression that seemed to be his default. Larissa Wheatfield thrust a microphone at him. ‘Yes, the deceased has been identified as Dustin Ronald Craig, aged forty-five.’

  ‘And can you tell us whether Mr Craig was known to the occupants of the house that was burnt?’

  ‘Yes, he was a neighbour.’

  ‘So the two incidents are connected then?’

  The detective stared at her for a moment. ‘Well … yes. That would be our assumption.’

  ‘And do police have any leads?’ asked Larissa intently.

  ‘We’re being helped in our inquiries by a number of people. And we also urge anyone with relevant information to ring Crime Stoppers. We would particularly like to speak to the owner of a dark-coloured sedan with a number plate beginning with W.’

  Detective-Sergeant Armistead and Larissa Wheatfield vanished, replaced by the male newsreader. The picture behind him now showed a small town with encroaching flood waters. Quinn picked up the remote control and turned down the volume, then turned to me. ‘That means they have a suspect! The guy with the dark sedan!’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied slowly, wondering if this meant our theories had just been destroyed. Maybe it had been an outsider after all. I picked breadcrumbs off my fingertips thoughtfully.

  ‘Finished the table, Mum.’ Lucy waved towards the meals area, where a neatly set table even boasted a pot plant as a centrepiece. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes, some board. Now that you’re employed. I take it you plan on staying here?’

  ‘Well, yeah.’ Lucy looked stunned. ‘I was … like, I thought …’

  ‘Clearly.’

  ‘Of course I’ll pay board,’ she said stiffly. ‘Just name your amount.’

  I got out the salad bowl and began tearing lettuce, flinging it in. ‘So what’s this job then? Picking apples? Pears? Cherries? Or have you moved on from fruit?’

  ‘When’s dinner?’ asked Quinn. ‘I’m starving.’

  Lucy was staring at me. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I know everything.’ I sliced the top off a red onion and started chopping.

  ‘I was just taking time out, working out what I wanted to do. Trying to fi–’

  I held up my hand to stop her, which worked because it was also the hand holding the knife. ‘If you say “find yourself”, I swear to god I’m going to blindfold you, drop you in the middle of the desert, and then see how you really go about finding yourself.’

  ‘In all fairness,’ interjected Quinn, ‘if you dropped her in the middle of the desert then it wouldn’t be herself that she’d have trouble finding, it’d be –’

  Lucy sniffed. ‘Well, I’m sorry you feel that way. But it worked for me.’

  ‘– civilisation,’ finished Quinn. ‘Which is entirely different.’

  ‘So tell us then: who the hell gave you this wonderful job?’

  ‘That would be me,’ said my mother from the doorway. She put a carrier bag down on the floor with her handbag, and came over to the island bench. ‘Is something burning?’

  ‘Shit.’ I pulled out the tray of chips and tossed them around, removing one that had fallen against the element. I replaced the tray and faced Yen. ‘You gave her a job.’

  ‘Yes. Why not?’

  ‘Because maybe it would have been nice to speak to me first? See how I felt about it?’

  She shrugged. ‘Lucy’s an adult. She needed a job, I offered her one.’

  I opened my mouth, and then closed it again. Anything I said now would no doubt be regretted later as I was so angry I could barely think straight. Instead, I got out the electric frypan and drizzled some olive oil, then laid the fillets in a neat row. I watched them sizzle, little bubbles frothing at the edges. Elderly woman felled by skillet. No witnesses.

  ‘Has Auntie Pet left?’ asked Quinn.

  ‘Yes. And I don’t know why you’re so annoyed, Nell,’ said Yen, in the same tone of voice she used when I was five. ‘I’m doing you a favour. You should thank me. Good lord, are you crying?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I was chopping onions.’

  After a few minutes of silence, Quinn turned the volume back up on the television. The weatherman was now on, pointing industriously to a series of charts. I turned the fish and added some carrot and feta to the salad bowl.

  ‘Grandma, did you know the police have a suspect now?’ Quinn swivelled around in the armchair. ‘They’re looking for a guy in a dark-coloured sedan.’

  ‘Well that should narrow the field down.’ Yen sat down on the armchair, stared at the television and then back at Quinn. ‘Any other developments?’

  Yes, I thought to myself, tossing the salad vigorously, we now have a threatening caller and you’re a controlling bitch.

  ‘No, but your house was on the news again. So was that detective Mum spoke to.’

  ‘He said they had several people helping them with their inquiries,’ added Lucy.

  ‘That’s what they always say,’ said Yen dismissively. She watched me plate the fish. ‘Are Scarlet and Ruby coming back up this weekend?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She drummed her fingers on the armrest. ‘Your sister is. Just to see how things are going. See if I need anything.’

  ‘Dinner’s ready.’ I poured the chips into a large bowl. ‘Quick, while it’s hot.’

  ‘Crumbed fish,’ said Yen, rising. She came over to the bench and took the plate with the smallest fillet. ‘How nice.’

  Lucy sniffed appreciatively. ‘Yum.’

  ‘I thought you were vegetarian?’ Quinn ext
racted a single lettuce leaf and deposited it on her plate, before covering it with chips.

  ‘I am. Fish is different. And Mum’s cooking makes it special.’

  I passed her a plate and then picked up the salad bowl and chips and took them over to the table, placing them either side of the pot plant. As everyone was settling themselves around the table, I went back to the kitchen and covered the remaining fish with cling wrap.

  Quinn was watching me. ‘Aren’t you eating?’

  ‘Later.’ I washed my hands briskly. ‘I’ve got to finish my column first.’

  I could feel Yen studying me as I strode past the table but I schooled myself not to glance in her direction. Instead, I went straight to the study and shut the door. Then I wheeled my chair into position, tapped the computer out of hibernation and typed in the title for my new column. ‘Power, control and the manipulative mother’. After that the column wrote itself.

  Chapter Seven

  I wonder if you realise that you have written three columns in the past six months around the theme of the joys of solitude. Not sure what’s going on in your life but methinks the lady doth protest too much?

  I’m not sure when I first decided to do a little bit of investigating myself. It may have been at around three in the morning, when I thought I heard someone creeping up the driveway. For the third time that night. Or it may have been a little earlier, when I could have sworn somebody was using a glass cutter on the windows in the living room. Which would have made for a rather intrepid villain, as those particular windows were a good five metres off the ground and didn’t even have ledges. Or it may have been even earlier, as I played the answering machine tape about six or seven times, trying to get some clues from those fourteen throaty words.

  I would have spent some time on the doll’s house, which had become my routine for sleepless nights, by my mother’s presence thwarted even that. Instead, I tossed and turned and thought. I decided it was very doubtful that the threatening phone call was about one of my columns, as I rarely wrote about issues deep enough to generate that level of wrath. Nor was it likely to be about my personal life as I was fairly law-abiding. The worst thing I had done recently was park in a parents-with-prams bay outside the local supermarket and even then, strictly speaking, I did own a pram, albeit an old one. The sign hadn’t stipulated that it actually had to be in the car. It was most likely, however, that the phone call was connected to the dead body recently found in my mother’s garage. Otherwise it was far too coincidental.