by Evans, Ilsa
‘And connected. She knew something about the Dustin Craig affair, and so now she’s been snuffed out herself.’
‘Snuffed out?’
‘Don’t be pedantic.’ I scratched the dog on the back of his neck and he stretched his head out happily. ‘This also confirms that the culprit wasn’t Beth Craig, or my mother.’
‘Much as I’d like to stay and follow your reasoning …’ The detective rose, smoothing down his trousers. ‘I can’t. But I’ll arrange for an officer to drive you home.’
‘What on earth for? I’ve got my car!’
‘You’ve had a pretty major shock, and –’
‘And fortunately I’m not a Victorian heroine, so I’ll drive myself.’ I moved forward on the couch and stared down at the dog, who had moved with me. ‘What about him then?’
Ashley Armistead followed my gaze, then reached out and gave the dog a scratch. ‘We’ll ring the local pound, they’ll pick him up for now. Perhaps relatives’ll take him in long term.’
‘The local pound,’ I repeated. The dog twisted to look at me, as if he knew what hung in the balance. He stared steadily. ‘I suppose that he could come home with me.’
‘Excellent idea. I’ll get his lead, some food.’
I was left gazing at his retreating back, a little surprised that he had accepted my suggestion with such alacrity. Most people would at least have offered an ‘are you sure?’ before racing off to begin packing. I looked down at the dog, already having second thoughts. I knew very little about dogs, never having owned one, or walked one, or even fed one. Growing up we always had cats, but only because they were declared useful creatures, while dogs were dismissed as canine leeches. As a mother myself, I had countered various suggestions of dog ownership, always able to deflect the requestor with guinea pigs or budgies or the odd rabbit.
The detective returned with a bulging plastic bag and a thick black lead decorated with silver studs. He held it up. ‘I think this little bloke must have delusions of grandeur.’
Before I could reply, the ‘little bloke’ noticed that his lead was being waved before him. He leapt skyward, missing the underside of my chin by millimetres, and then launched himself into mid-air, jaws snapping. He would have come crashing down to the floor had not Ashley Armistead dropped the plastic bag and caught him neatly, clipping lead to collar as he lowered him back down. The animal proceeded to grab his lead firmly and then run in circles, with increasing excitement.
‘Well, that’s handy,’ I commented. ‘He takes himself for walks.’
‘This is very good of you. I’ll contact you tomorrow, let you know what the next of kin wants to do with the dog. And also regarding your statement.’
I stood up, looked past him into the meals area, where an older man in a poo-brown suit was standing at the corner window. I turned back, smiled politely. ‘Sure. Thanks. Bye.’
The dog scrambled onto the passenger seat of my car as if accustomed to this mode of transport. He sat staring at the windscreen, tongue lolling, and remained that way for the entire drive home. He seemed to particularly enjoy right-hand turns, the sharper the better, scrabbling for purchase on the seat and then barking approvingly. The only time he looked a little perturbed was when I pulled into my driveway, but even then he continued his campaign for Most Adaptable Dog of the Year by remaining still, and giving me time to think.
Despite my assurances to the detective, I did feel a little shaky. I held my hand out to test this hypothesis and was not surprised to see it vibrate like a tuning fork. Berry Pembroke hadn’t been a close friend, or even really a friend, but she was someone I had known for a long time. I had been to her house, bought guinea pigs from her, exchanged greetings in the street. Only yesterday, in fact. Poor Berry in life, and now death.
Was it because I felt so desperately sorry for her that I had agreed to take the dog home? So much more practical than flowers. Or perhaps from guilt that I had pocketed a major clue, and now it was too late to give it back. I put my hand in my pocket and pulled the pin out, gazing at it. It didn’t necessarily mean that someone from the Richard III Society was the culprit, more that there had to be a connection. Maybe the pin had been stolen from one of them. I was still leaning towards Young Scowly, even though he didn’t seem quite the type to wear a lapel pin. Or a lapel. But rather the ridiculousness of that than line up the society members and discover which one no longer had a pin. Just in case it was my mother.
The dog glanced towards me and blinked, tongue lolling. As dogs went, he didn’t seem too bad. I closed my eyes, pushing away the image of him sitting by Berry’s head. Her eyes, her face. What I needed now was pyjamas, a glass of wine, some easy listening music, and for nothing else to happen for at least a few hours. I opened my eyes slowly and there was Quinn, mouth agape, staring in at the passenger seat.
‘Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god! Like, you are the BEST mother in the world! How did you know I wanted a dog more than anything, ever?’
Chapter Ten
LOVED your column about time thieves. I live with five of those, three of whom are ‘kiddults’. And you’re so right – each of them sets a value on their own time that they don’t on mine. I have decided I am going to put my foot down. After Christmas.
‘What about Marley? I loved that movie.’
‘Too sad,’ said Quinn. She pulled the dog towards her, away from Lucy. He wagged his tail and leant forward to lick her face. ‘What about Emmet? Or Jasper? Or Jacob?’
‘Coincidentally all names from that ridiculous Twilight,’ commented Yen from the couch. She regarded the dog. ‘If you’re going to use books, aim high. What about Heathcliff?’
‘Biggles,’ added Uncle Jim, in his deep voice. ‘Rin Tin Tin. Snowy.’
Lucy clapped her hands. ‘Cujo!’
‘Just for the sake of clarity –’ I waited until I had their attention ‘– can I remind you that we are not keeping this animal? He is merely an overnight guest, and we don’t generally rename our overnight guests.’
‘What about Hairy MacLary?’ asked Lucy, patting her leg so that the overnight guest wriggled towards her. ‘You know, from Donaldson’s Dairy?’
Quinn grinned. ‘Or Schnitzel Von Krumm, with the very low tum.’
‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ I said crossly. I finished the pot of tea for my mother and Uncle Jim, then took it over to them and put it on the coffee table next to their cups.
‘Thanks, love.’ Uncle Jim nodded, flicking his gaze from me to my mother and then into the middle distance. As if he needed a regular fix, but was terrified of being found out.
‘What about Nostradamus?’ asked Lucy. ‘Nostra for short.’
‘Mum, Ruby sent a message for you.’ Quinn held up her phone and began reading. ‘“WTF, tell Mum I’m furious. How come you get a dog when we wanted one for years?”’ She looked up. ‘And “furious” is in capitals.’
I ignored both Quinn and the message, and went back into the kitchen to begin putting a salad together to accompany the chicken roasting in the oven. The dog, who had been washed and brushed and fed, was now on his back between Lucy and Quinn having his stomach scratched. When he was happy, like now, his whole body undulated with joy.
‘Lincoln,’ said Lucy. ‘After his old home.’
‘Nah.’ Quinn tossed her phone over to the armchair. ‘Then he’d get called Lin for short and he might become gender dysmorphic.’
I watched the dog wriggle. ‘Or Gusto, because that’s how he treats life. Gus for short.’
‘Gus,’ repeated Quinn. ‘Actually, I like it.’
‘And I can’t believe neither of you know the name of this dog.’ I looked over at my mother and Uncle Jim, who were now drinking tea. ‘It lived right near you, for god’s sake.’
‘Well, if you find that unbelievable then this is going to absolutely astound you: I don’t know the name of any of her guinea pigs either.’
Uncle Jim squinted off to the side, then shook his head. ‘I keep thinking
James Stewart. But I don’t think that’s right.’
Yen shrugged. ‘I don’t even know the name of Sally Roddom’s beagle, and I see that more often. Or that yapper that lived behind me with the arty fellow.’
‘Did you know he got poisoned?’ I observed her carefully.
‘I take it you mean the dog, rather than the arty fellow. Not that either would surprise me.’
‘What about Lucky?’ asked Lucy, patting her chest so that the dog stood up against her. She enveloped him in a hug.
Quinn shook her head. ‘That’s just your own name, plus a k. It’s like calling him Quinnk.’
‘Besides, Lucky might be a little inappropriate,’ I commented, pushing away the image of Berry’s face. ‘Given the circumstances.’
Now it was my mother’s turn to examine me closely. ‘Horrid business. Poor Berry.’
The details of my afternoon had already been shared, and dissected, several times since everyone had arrived home. Everything except the lapel pin, which I had decided to keep to myself for now, and ignore. We had discussed similarities, and motivation, and alibis, and the chances of a serial killer running amok. Uncle Jim arrived just as we were updating the whiteboard, ostensibly because he was concerned for me, but soon settling beside my mother. He favoured the serial killer model, which made it all the more interesting that his wife was home alone. On the other hand, I was holding tight to my theory involving Young Scowly, which I had shared, while both Lucy and Quinn felt that he must be a gun-for-hire.
‘Have you considered that maybe they’re not connected?’ asked Yen. ‘Berry could be quite tight-fisted with money, you know. Maybe she rubbed someone up the wrong way.’
‘I doubt that getting gypped over a couple of guinea pigs is going to cause anyone to react quite that strongly.’ I began slicing the lettuce into strips, getting an odd sense of satisfaction from the way the knife bit. ‘No, they’re definitely connected.’
‘Edward Given,’ announced Quinn, staring at the whiteboard. ‘Like nobody suspects him because he’s such a tool, but maybe that’s all front.’
‘Literally,’ said Lucy, rather nastily. Then her face clouded. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean it like that! Not because he’s fat, anyway, just because I don’t like him.’
‘I quite like Quinnk,’ said Uncle Jim musingly. ‘It’s got a nice ring to it.’
I thought of Edward yesterday, and the sly gratuitousness that oiled his gossip. I spoke slowly, measuring my words. ‘Then, of course, there’s the dark-coloured sedan. Just out of curiosity, Uncle Jim, did you happen to see it on Saturday night? Around eleven-ish? When you were … out?’
He stared at me, and then blinked.
‘I take it you mean after he popped in to see me,’ said my mother, her eyes narrow. ‘To make sure I was okay, what with Dustin Craig screaming the neighbourhood down and the police coming and all. In which case the answer is no, I’ve already asked him.’
‘Wasn’t looking down thataway,’ added Uncle Jim, taking his glasses off to polish them with the corner of his cardigan. ‘Just heading home.’
‘Mum, here’s another message for you,’ said Quinn, leaning across to the armchair. ‘This one’s from Red and she says: “WTF! WTF! Just got back checked Facebook and WTF! Is everyone safe? Why no-one answering phones? WTF! WTF!” Um, I think she’s pissed.’
‘Oh, yeah.’ Lucy was now looking at her phone also. ‘I’ve got three missed calls from her and two messages.’
‘I don’t know why she didn’t just ring the landline.’ I pushed the salad to one side and then left the room. In the study, the frenetically blinking answering machine light filled me with a mixture of guilt, regarding Red, and trepidation, in case the nasty caller had left a second offering. I turned the volume down and listened to each of the four messages, but they were all from Red, and suggested an increasing level of frustration. After erasing them, I switched the landline mode from automatic answering machine diversion and back to normal. It rang almost immediately, followed by the sound of the front doorbell. I took a deep breath and opted for the phone.
‘Hello?’
‘Nell, it’s Rita Hurley. Um, is my husband there by any chance? Can you put him on?’
‘Mum!’ called Quinn from the front door. ‘It’s for you!’
I took the phone back out to the lounge room, passed it wordlessly to Uncle Jim, and turned towards the entry. Before I could take a step, however, Quinn came into view and, behind her, Leon Chaucer. I stopped dead, aghast.
‘I take it you forgot about our date?’ Leon smiled, seemingly amused.
‘Date?’ Lucy looked from him to me and back.
‘Interesting,’ said my mother, stringing the word out.
‘Oh my god! I did forget! What with everything that’s happened today …’
Leon’s smile faltered as he gazed around the room, taking in the various expressions. ‘What’s happened today? Is this something new?’
‘Not now,’ said Uncle Jim in a low voice into the phone. He glanced up, embarrassed, and then rose stiffly to take the phone out to the hallway.
I returned my attention to Leon, struck by the realisation that he might not know. ‘Berry Pembroke?’ I watched his brow furrow. ‘Leon, have you been home?’
‘No, I came straight from work. Berry Pembroke? From next door?’
‘Yes. Oh, god. Look, I’m so sorry to tell you this but Berry’s been killed. Strangled.’
Leon’s face continued to register incomprehension for a moment or two, then disbelief. ‘No.’
‘I’m afraid so. I, ah, found her. About lunchtime. If you’d gone home, you’d have seen all the police.’
‘You found her?’ Leon walked over to the island bench, pulled out a stool and sat down. ‘I’m having trouble taking this in. She was strangled?’
I nodded. ‘In the passageway of her house. Sometime last night.’
‘You were going on a date?’ asked Lucy. ‘Like … a date?’
‘We’ve got her dog.’ Quinn picked up Exhibit A and held him aloft. His tail swept the floor. ‘Hey, you don’t happen to know his name, do you?’
Leon glanced across. ‘What? Um, Harvey I think.’
‘Harvey?’ Quinn turned the dog around so he was facing her. He wriggled happily. ‘Nah, Let’s go with Gusto. Like with Gus for short.’
‘Christ. Strangled.’
‘Yes, so you see why I was a little distracted. No offence.’
‘None taken. My god.’
‘Why don’t you go anyway?’ said Yen suddenly. ‘It’ll do you good, Nell.’
Lucy shook her head. ‘Grandma –’
‘I couldn’t. It’d be … weird. Plus, I’ve got dinner.’ I waved towards the salad, the oven. ‘And I need to ring Red.’
‘We can take care of that. It’s the least I can do in return for you being so hospitable. You run along, have a drink. Relax.’
‘I must admit I’d like to, if you’re up for it,’ said Leon, looking at me. ‘Otherwise I’ll just be going … home.’
His meaning hung in the air as everyone fell silent. I knew that my mother must have an ulterior motive because she didn’t even like Leon Chaucer, but I found her encouragement a little disturbing, to say the least. She probably wanted to get me out of the way so that she and Uncle Jim could play footsies without being judged. Quinn seemed unaffected by the proceedings, too busy playing with Gusto, while Lucy was gazing from me to Leon with barely disguised revulsion. Somebody’s phone started vibrating, and I guessed either Red was still trying to make contact or that Scarlet had now heard about the dog.
‘Okay, I will. Give me a few seconds to get changed.’
My mother rose and came over to the kitchen. She had already opened the oven door as I left, with the succulent aroma of roasting chicken billowing forth. I passed Uncle Jim, standing outside the study and whispering into the phone. He went quiet for a second, and then continued as soon as I entered my bedroom. I went straight to my wardrobe and stood the
re, hoping that something perfect would materialise, preferably ironed. When that didn’t eventuate, I just extracted my little black dress plus a white lacy jacket to hide the fact that the LBD had become rather snug recently.
The mirror told me, rather harshly, that it had been a trying day. I applied a second coat of make-up and ran a brush through my hair, which only served to wake it from slumber. I used a thin black scarf as a hairband and let the ends dangle over one shoulder. For a moment I thought of Berry, but then pushed the image away.
Out in the kitchen, my mother had somehow managed to transform the salad bowl into something predominantly orange. Lucy was hissing into the phone in the corner and sending me the occasional baleful glare, while Quinn was trying to teach the dog to play dead. Leon, who had been watching, turned to me with relief.
‘Not sure about your daughter’s timing.’
‘No.’ I watched as Quinn held the dog down with one hand. ‘I suppose not.’
‘However, you look great. Shall we go?’
‘Sure.’ I smiled brightly around the room. ‘See you all soon. I won’t be late.’
My mother cut the crust neatly from a slice of bread and placed it on a stack of other, similarly denuded slices. ‘We’ll be fine. You take your time.’
I passed Uncle Jim in the hallway, now just listening to the phone with a resigned expression. Outside the early evening was warm and still, comfortable. To my surprise, Leon’s car was a black Chrysler PT Cruiser convertible, a contemporary car that had been designed to look like it had sprung from the 1950s. The top was up but it still looked sleek, and different. He unlocked the door and held it open, grinning.
‘Expecting something different? I like retro.’
‘Very nice.’ I slid into the passenger seat, admiring the purple inset of the dashboard while he jogged around to the other side. As he reversed from the driveway I looked up to see Lucy at the living room window, still talking on her mobile. We pulled away, the distance between us lengthening, and I felt a sense of release. A lightening. We drove without speaking for a while, wrapped in a companionable silence despite all.
