by Evans, Ilsa
‘Fiona, can I ask you how Leon reacted to all this? I mean, if he had any, ah, feelings for Beth Craig, then surely it must have been quite hard for him to hear her husband abusing her like that?’
‘Yes.’ Fiona went quiet, remembering. ‘It was him who rang the police, you know. And him who wanted to sit on the veranda. I think he wanted to see … make sure. Whatever.’
‘That must have been difficult for you.’
‘It was! Oh, it was! She could have just left, you know. If she stayed all this time, doesn’t that mean she liked it?’
‘I don’t think it works that way. It’s far more complex.’
‘Didn’t look complex to me. I only get one night a week, and she ruined it.’
I watched as she pleated the tablecloth, her eyes glistening. ‘Did you go back out again?’
‘No. We finished the wine and went to bed.’
I stared at her with surprise, having not expected, for some reason, that the arrangement was an overnight one. The tablecloth in front of her was now an accordion of neat folds. The noise level at the front had steadied into a dull rumble, including footsteps as everybody began returning to their seats. I put my hand on Fiona’s and smiled apologetically. ‘I’m so sorry to have upset you. I was just hoping you saw something. And Fiona, don’t let yourself get too upset, it’s not worth it. Trust me, I know.’ I hesitated, unsure whether to say any more, then went for it anyway. ‘But you need to stand up for yourself. Go after what you want, sure, but put more value on you than on the relationship. Right now you’re letting him have his cake and eat it too.’
‘Would you jump in my grave as quick?’ asked Petra, looming behind me.
I transferred into my own seat just as Grace June Rae settled opposite, still looking cross. I guessed the hatchet question had not been adjudicated in her favour. Petra tugged her chair out and collapsed cheerfully, dumping a large silver trophy on the table. It featured a lopsided crown studded with fake jewels and a little plaque that read Richard III Society Majic Quiz Champion!
‘You have to be kidding.’
She beamed. ‘It was the last question that won it for me. What relationship was Eleanor of Aquitaine to Richard III? It was a tricky one, but I got there in the end. Nine greats.’
‘And pretty quick too,’ said Sharon, leaning on the back of her chair.
‘Oh, well done,’ said Fiona, her eyes still shining. ‘I thought that one would take people a while.’
‘You have to be kidding,’ I repeated, still staring at the trophy.
‘Well, wasn’t that fun?’ asked Sam Emerson loudly from the lectern. ‘Congratulations to Petra Forrest for winning and a big thanks to our mayor James Sheridan for facilitating and to Fiona Ramage for putting it together. Now how about we all help ourselves to some refreshments, after which we shall invite Harold to deliver his talk – which I, for one, am very much looking forward to.’
The battleaxe expert, who had only just sat down, rose again to head towards the buffet area. Grace June Rae followed and, after a few minutes, so did Fiona. She still looked pale and I felt rather guilty, particularly as this should have been her moment of glory.
‘I’m going to see if I can nab a bottle of wine,’ said Sharon. ‘Do you two want a glass?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Petra, speaking for us both.
As soon as she left, I turned to my sister. ‘Well, while you were off having fun, I was investigating. She’s in love with him, but I suspect he isn’t in love with her. However he may be in love with Beth Craig.’
‘So let me see. We have Fiona sneaking off to Leon’s house, and maybe Leon sneaking off to Beth’s, and it appears that Uncle Jim has been sneaking off to Yen’s. Does anyone in that neighbourhood spend the night in their own house?’
‘Edward Given. And Rita Hurley. And possibly the Tapscotts.’
‘Not necessarily re the latter, I still haven’t ruled them out. Hmm, so that gives Fiona opportunity but no motive. She would want Dustin Craig alive, not dead. But it does give Leon one.’
‘Except that Fiona spent the night. So he has an airtight alibi.’
‘Alibi, yes,’ said Petra in her mysterious voice. ‘But airtight? We’ll just have to see.’
‘Perhaps we’re concentrating on Dustin too much, and not enough on Berry.’
Petra thought about this. ‘No, because it all stems from Dustin. Now, don’t think I spent all my time winning; I also managed to confirm that your list is almost complete. The only relevant members of the Majic Branch of the Richard III Society who are not wearing a lapel pin are …’ She pulled my answer sheet from her pocket and ticked them off with a finger: ‘Edward Given, Fiona Ramage, Lillian Forrest, Rolf Cook and Mavis Birkenstock. And we can rule the latter two out, the first because he has obsessive compulsive disorder and wouldn’t be capable of leaving a crime scene without cleaning up, and the second because she is confined to a wheelchair. And Grace June Rae hasn’t got any more pins, they’re on back order. Oh, and Jane Austen has been eliminated through non-attendance.’
‘How on earth do you know all this?’
‘Let’s see. Jane’s been dead for about two hundred years, Mavis is in her wheelchair, and Rolf spent more time straightening his answer sheet than actually answering questions.’
‘That doesn’t seem –’
‘And he told me, one time last year.’ Petra picked up her trophy and examined her face in the shiny chrome. ‘When he tried to pick me up at the pub.’
‘Ah, I see. Well, you said my list was almost complete. Who else?’
‘Loretta Emerson. I can’t quite see it but there you go. Maybe Dustin criticised her cooking.’
‘That’d do it.’ I yawned and then gazed around the room, at the little clusters of people with their cups of tea, or glasses of wine, deep in discussion. I was willing to bet that each of these conversations would be more concerned with recent events than those that had taken place in the fifteenth century. I locked eyes with Edward Given again, who was surprisingly still seated. He waved cheerfully. Behind him the buffet table looked very inviting, with cakes and pastries and hot savouries, including, of course, Loretta’s famed cheese puffs.
There was action up at the lectern also, with Sam Emerson and Yen fussing around Harold Ramsbottom, arranging the microphone, getting him a glass of water, setting up a data projector. This last made my heart sink a little. It was one thing to listen to a lengthy speech that profiled a dead man I didn’t much care about, it was quite another to have that speech accompanied by slides. Besides, in my experience, all medieval images looked much the same. Sallow-faced men and pious women. As I watched, Harold stepped up and began counting his pages onto the lectern. One, two, three, four, five – he licked his fingers for greater traction – six, seven, eight, nine, ten. And at that point I stopped counting because otherwise I was going to begin banging my head on the table in sync.
Chapter Fifteen
As a regular reader, I noticed that your anecdotes about your husband ceased at some point earlier this year (maybe even before?). My guess is that your marriage ended and therefore you may well be dating by now – in which case I would like to put forward my son. He is forty-eight and has his own hair and house. I enclose his mobile number for your personal use.
Monday was one of those days where good things just tumbled on top of each other, at least for the first three-quarters. To start with, I woke early and refreshed for a change, despite another hot night, with an idea for this week’s column fully formed. Indeed, it had almost written itself before I even left for the shop. Family loyalty, inspired by Richard III and the machinations of the Plantagenet dynasty. Putting aside issues like inter-cousin marriage and decapitation and regular backstabbing of the literal variety, some things never change.
The second good thing was that I was organised enough to give Quinn a lift to school, and thus was able to catch up on all that was going on in her world. Which, it seemed, amounted to Gusto, Gusto and Gusto.
I also discovered that this was the last week of school for the year, which seemed a handy thing to know.
The next good thing happened when I arrived at the shop, after I put my bag away and was returning to the front, past New Releases and Other Interesting Stuff. Lucy was manning the cash register, serving a rather irate young woman who had purchased One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest expecting something rather more avian. It was the first time I had seen Lucy in her new environment and I was taken aback to see how efficient she was, how capable. It was a feeling that only grew as the morning progressed. She was good at this, really good. Her style seemed to complement my mother’s; one briskly knowledgeable and the other tranquil, helpful, even cosy. And her purple streaks matched Sharon’s taste in clothing. Plus she seemed older, no longer my whimsical little changeling. Our airy-fairy, her father used to say. The knot of resentment I had been carrying for the past week loosened a little, just a little, as I allowed the possibility that maybe this wouldn’t be a complete disaster after all.
There were leftovers for lunch, an array of delicacies from the function the day before. This was doubly welcome because nobody wanted to go out for lunch, the heat having decided to go all out before the change that was due tomorrow afternoon. We had an impromptu party in the reading room, where Sharon regaled us with anecdotes of life on their farm. Eventually, though, as always, the conversation turned to the murders. It soon became clear that Sharon favoured Edward Given as the prime suspect, although she was reluctant to come right out and say it. She based this on motive, having seen him and Dustin exchange words over a parking spot earlier in the year. It seemed that the words of the latter had included some highly insulting references to the suspected sexual proclivities of the former – although as Edward’s mother was now living in Rosebud, many miles away, it was unsure how these could have been accomplished.
The next good things were a pair of calls to the shop phone, the first from Petra, who had arranged everything so that she could return for the rest of the week. She just had to keep a few appointments the following day but would be back in Majic by dinnertime. She claimed this was out of concern, but I suspected she actually enjoyed being Watson to my Holmes. I certainly wasn’t complaining. Apart from anything else, it was nice to have another adult around who wasn’t a primary suspect.
The second call was from Ruby, to inform me that she had been accepted for a summer writing elective that was apparently very popular. The fact that I hadn’t even known she had applied, or that it had nothing to do with her degree, or that it didn’t make a great deal of financial sense, were neither here nor there. ‘Besides, I did try to discuss it with you, Mum, but you never answer your bloody phone. I mean, what’s the point of having a mobile if it’s never on? And if you don’t turn it on, then at least could you answer the landline every so often? What if something happened? Huh?’
I did turn on my mobile after that, but only because I needed to ring Scarlet in private and check whether this summer course indicated any second thoughts by Ruby regarding her degree. I was a little paranoid, after Lucy. Once reassured, I spent some time listening to voicemails from Red and took time to return the favour, making sure that I stressed how much we were looking forward to her arrival this coming Friday. Red could be a little needy sometimes, and rather sensitive to any perceived marginalisation. I hung up feeling very proud of my maternal prowess.
‘Please don’t feel any pressure to work,’ said my mother, coming around the corner with a basket of Winnie-the-Poohs and Piglets. ‘I would hate to interfere with your social life.’
‘For your information, I am sorting out your granddaughters.’
‘Oh, that’s fine then. I don’t mind subsidising that. Take your time.’
A Piglet fell, or jumped, from the basket as she continued towards the children’s section, rolling across the floor near my foot. I picked him up and sat him on a bookshelf beside George Orwell’s Animal Farm, which seemed apt. Then I continued through my backlog of voicemail, erasing those from Ruby, now that we’d spoken, and also one from Quinn asking to get collected from school. Given it was three days old I felt I could safely assume she’d made alternative arrangements. The second last was from my editor in Melbourne, putting out tentative feelers regarding a feature article. ‘You’re right in the thick of it, Nell! What an opportunity!’ And then finally, and rather surprisingly, was Fiona Ramage. ‘Hi, Nell, I know you work at Renaissance on Mondays so I was wondering if you maybe wanted to have lunch? There’s something I … well, let me know. Ta.’
As it was nearly two o’clock by then, and my book group started at three, I decided to brave the heat for a stroll to the gallery during my afternoon break. Perhaps Fiona had recovered a thread of memory, a vital clue, a missing piece of the puzzle that I would slot neatly into place and then ring Ashley Armistead and say something like, ‘Ashley, dear, just thought I’d let you know the identity of the murderer and the timeline of events. Oh, and may I suggest an excellent way of celebrating our success?’
Out in the main shop the good stuff just kept tumbling with news that Noel Maloney had contacted my mother about the old Fletcher house. After some negotiating, they agreed on a provisional price pursuant to a building inspection. The deal, if all went well, would include a rent-paying arrangement until early settlement, which meant Yen could move in as soon as the papers were signed. I was a little stunned by the haste but she was more cynical, believing that the family had simply decided to make their move before the property market reflected the fact that the residents were being culled.
So it was with a light step that I exited Renaissance shortly afterwards, almost immediately locking eyes with Detective Sergeant Ashley Armistead, who had just parked his car outside the police station. I waved happily and he doffed an imaginary hat, bowed low. I smiled, and my smile felt like it echoed inside out. Breaking news: middle-aged woman rediscovers what it feels like to be admired. In a word – good.
I might have stood there a little longer, feeling buoyantly foolish, had not Lucy rapped on the bookshop window. She was at the cash register, leaning against the glass so that she could see up the street towards the police station, into which Ashley had now disappeared. She straightened, looking back at me with a frown, but I kept my smile in place, doffed an imaginary hat of my own. The girls had to accept that I too needed to move on.
Leaving Lucy to no doubt start calling her sisters, I set off past the evil-eyed Santa, who had now been given a Hitler moustache that did little to improve his general attractiveness. By contrast the snowman outside the chemist looked positively merry, no doubt due to the packet of Valium that some bright spark had drawn on one puffy hand. I started thinking about Christmas, and presents, and turkeys. And my undecorated Christmas tree.
The Majic Art Gallery was probably the only shop along the whole strip that was tastefully festive. A spiral of holly looped across the front window, tiny buds of crimson peeking from verdant linen leaves. I could see Leon inside, working at the desk, his emerald tie a splash of colour against a charcoal grey suit. I watched him for a moment, trying to picture him with Fiona, and Beth, and goodness knew who else. Then I crossed the street to push open the front door, welcoming the blast of cool air.
‘Nell!’ Leon looked up and beamed. ‘What a lovely surprise!’
‘Ditto.’ I gazed around the gallery, admiring the objects on display. One wall was taken up by a series of alien-eyed women, where the artist had managed to capture something sensual despite the flatness of their gaze. Another wall held indigenous paintings, with warm autumnal tones and detailed dot points. But it was a sculpture in the centre that drew the gaze, a life-sized marble female with teardrop breasts and rounded belly, languidly leaning back from a kneeling position with one long, lily-white arm reaching towards the ceiling.
‘Gorgeous, isn’t she?’ Leon followed my gaze.
‘Absolutely beautiful. I hate her.’
‘Yes, that seems to be par for the course. Wome
n hate her and men want her.’ He fell silent as he continued to stare at the statue, and then suddenly the smile was back. ‘Well, enough of her. This is very serendipitous, you know. I was going to call in later anyway to see if you wanted to catch up for dinner again this week.’
‘That sounds lovely. But I actually popped in to see Fiona. Is she around?’
He shook his head, frowned. ‘No, and I’m a little cross. She didn’t show this morning, not even a phone call. Then, when I rang her house, her father was all kinds of rude.’
‘She didn’t show?’ I stared at him, alarm bells instantly ringing. I dragged my phone from my pocket and laboriously found my way to her now deleted message. It was left at seven-fifteen pm yesterday. Mobile to mobile.
‘She’s done this before,’ said Leon, picking up on my concern. ‘Only once or twice admittedly, but she does have a tendency towards migraine. If they’re really bad, she’s just not capable of calling me. Or even really caring.’
‘But what did her father say?’
‘Oh, the man’s a complete moron. As soon as I said my name, he started carrying on about his wife’s bath or something. Wouldn’t even discuss Fiona. But I’d say she’s in bed, poor thing, with the curtains drawn. I just wish she’d called before things got too bad. Given me a heads-up.’
‘Leon, would you humour me and give them another try?’ Even as I asked I was hitting reply on my mobile, bringing it up to my ear. I moved away from the counter as the phone rang about five times and then went to voicemail, Fiona’s voice rather dolefully suggesting that callers leave a message. She sounded like Eeyore. I obliged, asking her to call asap.
Leon was just hanging up as I returned. He had paled, just a little, but enough to tell me that Fiona was not home. He shook his head, confirming this, and we stared at each other for a few moments. Then he picked up the phone again. ‘I’m ringing the police.’
