Praise for The Nancys
Winner of the 2020 Ngaio Marsh Award for Best First Novel
‘This book is like a little cube of Turkish Delight in a world of digestive biscuits. Get into it. Let it make you happy … It’s so funny and fun and feel-good.’ Bri Lee, author of Eggshell Skull
‘Death? Sequins? Monsters, Show Queens, a headless corpse and a cat called Bunny Whiskers? Yes, yes and YES. The Nancys is what you might get if you rolled Little Miss Sunshine, Dumplin’ and CSI into a book-shaped ball and threw it into small-town NZ: funny and flamboyant but with real weight (and a dead body) at its centre. Fun, refreshing and surprisingly poignant.’ Anna Downes, author of The Safe Place
‘A delight—moving and hilarious. I loved every minute I spent with these characters.’ Paddy O’Reilly, author of The Wonders
‘How does The Nancys manage to be both sharp and blackly funny, but also uplifting and sweet?’ Toni Jordan, author of The Fragments
‘Murder, makeovers, snappy dialogue (with a generous sprinkling of filth), and characters I did not want to leave on the last page. So much fun and so much heart.’ Kate Mildenhall, author of The Mother Fault
‘Funny, dark and above all, heart-warming. The Nancys is a celebration of what’s important in life—which is family, friendship and also: makeovers. R.W.R. McDonald’s novel is fast-paced, clever and full of wit and repartee.’ Katherine Collette, author of The Helpline
‘First-time novelist McDonald has opened his account with a real belter, a unique and enthralling tale.’ Craig Sisterson, reviewer and founder of the Ngaio Marsh Awards
‘It is a bold author who writes a crime fiction novel from the perspective of an eleven-year-old girl, but Rob McDonald has captured the essence and heart of his young narrator, and with it brought a view of her world that is illuminating, funny, bewildering, heart-breaking and determined.’ Vanda Symon, author of The Faceless
‘This is a gripping, glorious, heart-warming novel for anyone who’s ever felt they were on the outside looking in.’ Good Reading
‘All the characters are vividly drawn, but the best thing about this charming and very funny book is the dialogue … filled with love and humour even in the face of danger.’ Sydney Morning Herald and The Age
‘A riotous, delightful mess of a case, with beauty pageants, cranky child witnesses and bitter minor celebrities, told from Tippy’s candid and occasionally baffled perspective … Cheerfully scattered, this glittering, occasionally grisly and highly original novel is recommended for those who like the bawdiest parts of Phryne Fisher, but stands proudly on its own.’ Books + Publishing
‘This is an absolute riot … a sensational example [of queer crime] that glitters with originality. Tippy is observant and honest … [her] delightfully camp uncle lights up the page. The supporting characters are a scream, the townsfolk harbouring much more interesting personalities than anybody expected. The Nancys is a cheerfully scattered tale of bad interior design, beauty pageants gone haywire, and haphazard but smart investigation, all tied together in a saucy package in which love and the families you make are everything.’ Readings
‘Hilarious with a little dose of schoolyard crude, this novel will keep all ages laughing … a delight.’ Herald Sun
‘McDonald unfolds this wild grown ups’ whodunit from the crest of the contemporary literary Zeitgeist. It is funny, daring and satirical while also quite the off-centre page-turner.’ The Advertiser
‘Fast paced and laugh-out-loud funny, this accomplished debut by Melbourne-based Kiwi writer Rob McDonald brings welcome wit and charm to the crime fiction genre, delivering both a satisfying mystery and a thoroughly heart-warming story.’ The Weekend West
First published in 2021
Copyright © R.W.R. McDonald 2021
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone:(61 2) 8425 0100
Email:[email protected]
Web:www.allenandunwin.com
ISBN 978 1 76087 887 0
eISBN 978 1 76106 199 8
Set by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Cover design: Alissa Dinallo
To Ali and Grier—you are the light that makes the rainbow.
And Grace, the fourth Nancy
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
My counsellor told me firsts were hard. First Christmas, first birthday and now today, 18 April, the first anniversary of Dad’s death. And the first day of school holidays. My classmates were probably warm in their beds, still asleep, not freezing in the middle of nowhere with their family beside a ditch.
I tucked the bunch of flowers under my chin, the cellophane wrap crinkling loudly in my ear as I struggled to zip up my crimson anti-kidnapping jacket.
It had shrunk since I wore it last summer at Dunedin Airport, the sleeves now three-quarters. In my other hand I gripped my tablet with grandma, NaiNai, on video-call from Shanghai. She yelped in alarm as I juggled zip, flowers and tablet with my numb fingers, trying not to drop her on the tar-sealed road below. ‘Hold on,’ I said, hoping she wasn’t getting too dizzy. Finally, the zip gave way and I pulled it up as far as I could, probably jamming it again, but I was so cold I didn’t care.
Mum didn’t turn around. Her blonde hair was in a pretty French braid, rather than her usual one-minute ponytail, thanks to Uncle Pike who was a celebrity stylist though, as Mum said, ‘Just not for himself’. I was almost as tall as Mum now, although she was pretty short, and Mrs Brown, our next-door neighbour, had stopped calling me ‘little China doll’—but that could have been more to do with her granddaughter, Melanie, calling her racist than me turning twelve. Mum stood on the bank, facing the Clutha River, wide and deep. Its emerald surface appeared calm, yet underneath it seethed, racing towards the sea. Leftover morning fog drifted in and out, hiding under the willows, reaching out but never quite touching us or the white cross half-buried in the thick grass.
Dad’s cross. Somehow it seemed smaller, not big enough to mark such an important spot, two kilometres out of Riverstone, on the flat. Dad had been driving towards the freezing works. In the middle
of the night. In the opposite direction to home.
Behind me, Uncle Pike and Devon whispered something. They had arrived from Sydney last night and had slept in our living room, their first time back to Riverstone since Christmas. My uncle hadn’t changed, he still looked like a tattooed Santa on steroids, but I got a shock when I saw Devon. He had gone from Action Man to a Lalaloopsy doll. His bulging muscles no longer bulged and his head and hair were now the biggest part of him, just like my friend Todd Landers—when he had hair. But what had changed the most was Devon didn’t seem to be his usual sparkly self and I didn’t know why.
I scrunched my toes inside my boots then stamped on the spot like a bad dancer. My feet were so frozen they felt wet.
NaiNai coughed. I held the tablet up to my face and smiled. She peered back, close up to her camera. Her huge white-framed glasses reminded me of two old television screens. I so wished she’d been able to come.
Mum’s head turned slightly. She watched me from the corner of her eye. ‘Be careful with that thing, Tippy,’ she said, her words turning into steamy clouds and drifting behind her.
‘Now she says it,’ NaiNai muttered in Mandarin, rubbing her forehead. ‘I thought I would vomit.’
I tried not to laugh.
Mum whipped around. ‘What did she say?’
NaiNai stared blankly at her. I shrugged.
Mum forced a smile. ‘You know what? Never mind.’ She stepped back and touched my shoulder. ‘Come on.’
I glanced over at Uncle Pike, who mouthed, ‘Love you, Tippy Chan.’ He was dressed like Santa at a funeral with a Russian-style furry hat and big black coat, whereas Devon looked like he was going to the gym, in shorts and a black T-shirt with Nancys in white writing across the front. It was the one he had made last summer with the outline of a lady with big boobs, spreading her legs in high heels to form the letter ‘n’.
Devon shivered. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered to me. ‘It was the only black top I could find.’
I told him it was okay, trying not to giggle. Mum wasn’t impressed. She took my arm and we stepped off the highway and down the short gravel verge.
She kneeled down and put her dozen red roses beside the white cross. Mum murmured something only Dad could hear. She stood up slightly then stayed frozen in the same spot. We waited silently behind her. It was so quiet out here; the only sounds were crickets chirping, the odd bird call and the soft gurgling of the river. Across the water, yellowy-orange poplars glowed an autumn gold.
Mum reached out and touched the cross then pushed herself up, turned and gave me a nod, waving me over.
I stepped down from the verge and laid my flowers next to her red roses. NaiNai had told me to get white chrysanthemums because we’re Chinese. I didn’t try to argue with her that I’m a Kiwi. She and Dad were from China, but Mum was Pakeha, and I was born in New Zealand.
On screen, NaiNai hissed and made a pushing gesture at the sight of Mum’s flowers. ‘I told you no red.’
Mum’s cold strong fingers gripped my hand and lifted the tablet up to her face while I still clung to it. ‘Joe bought me red roses. They mean love,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit late to be superstitious now.’
I pulled the tablet away from Mum. NaiNai muttered something and shook her head. I remembered their huge arguments after Dad died. NaiNai’s visa hadn’t come through in time and she missed saying goodbye to Dad at the hospital when they turned off his life support. By the time she arrived Mum and Uncle Pike had organised the funeral. NaiNai had wanted us to wear white and for me to speak at it, but Mum refused. Mum also wouldn’t listen when NaiNai wanted Dad buried. Instead Mum cremated him. After we had scattered his ashes off Riverstone Bridge, NaiNai left for Shanghai straight away. They had basically stopped speaking to each other by then anyway.
Behind Mum’s back, Devon grimaced and quickly ripped off all the red flower-heads from the colourful bouquet he and Uncle Pike had brought. My uncle held open his black jacket pocket while Devon stuffed them in.
‘Why didn’t we do this at the bridge?’ I asked Mum. ‘Like last year.’
She stiffened but ignored me. The noise of a vehicle came from the direction of town. Even from far away, it drowned out the gentle sound of the river. I turned my back to the road to avoid the passenger stares. I couldn’t stand any more pity. The sun warmed my neck as the vehicle came closer, louder and louder until it roared past. Mr Jansen’s dirty white van, with Mr Tulips written in green on the side, except the letter ‘i’ which was a picture of a red tulip. I watched his van disappear, the tinted back windows brown with mud and dust.
I always had trouble believing Dad had crashed here—alone, a straight road with no other vehicles. Not drunk. It had been foggy but still … None of it made any sense. None of it seemed real.
‘Why was Dad driving out here?’ I asked Mum. ‘Where was he going?’
She sighed. ‘We’ve been over this a million times.’ She bowed her head and was silent. On screen, NaiNai did the same.
I bowed mine too and stood still, wanting to feel at least close to sad, but I just felt cold and annoyed with Mum. I closed my eyes, trying to picture a happy Dad memory. Instead I got the last time I saw him before his accident—Dad sitting in his car, his tired face horrified as he watched me realise he had stolen all my savings. His car’s red tail-lights disappearing as I hurled my empty Piggy-Cat money box after him.
I shook my head to clear it, focusing on what we didn’t know. Why was he here so early on a Sunday morning? What was he doing? He was lucky, if you can call it that: a half-buried log had bellied his car and stopped it, and Dad, from ending up in the river. A passer-by had found him behind the wheel, unconscious, and he was flown to Dunedin Hospital by chopper. But he never woke up again.
I opened my eyes. Mum and NaiNai had lifted their heads so I did the same. I searched for the log but it was hidden in the long grass.
Uncle Pike and Devon came forward and laid their flowers next to the cross. Devon shivered and rubbed his bare arms. NaiNai stared at him. He noticed her and nodded, giving her a smile. She gave him a slight nod in return.
Devon leaned into Uncle Pike, trying to snuggle.
‘Told you it would be cold,’ my uncle said as he opened his coat. Devon moved closer, trying to wrap the jacket around both of them.
‘Hello,’ Uncle Pike yelled at NaiNai. He pointed to his head. ‘Pike. Remember me?’ He waved as she glared at him.
‘Her hearing’s actually quite good,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it, NaiNai?’
She smiled at me. I introduced her to Devon who held out his hand to the tablet.
‘Very pleased to meet you,’ Devon said. I translated in Mandarin. NaiNai wanted me to practise any chance I got. She watched him and nodded.
‘I was so sad to hear about your son,’ Devon said. ‘I wish I’d got the chance to meet Joe as he sounded like an amazing person.’ Devon looked at me when he said this and gave my hand a squeeze.
NaiNai waited as I translated. I gave Devon a little smile to say thank you.
‘Also, please tell her that I love her glasses? They’re super stylish. Very fashion forward.’
I told NaiNai. She grinned and told me he was handsome and kind. I translated. Devon got a little teary and asked if he could give her a hug. She asked me what he’d said, but before I could answer I was engulfed in a bear hug, NaiNai on the tablet squashed between us. Devon gently pulled back and wiped his eyes.
NaiNai clucked and said something in Mandarin that I couldn’t pick up.
I got a ride back home with Uncle Pike and Devon in their blue twin-cab ute rental.
‘Like Nancy Drew’s roadster,’ my uncle said to me from the driver’s seat, slapping the steering wheel. ‘Except a truck.’
I leaned forward from the rear seat. ‘Well, it is blue like hers.’ It was great to be so high up off the road. We drove back to Riverstone along the river. On the other side of the road, train tracks cut through green hilly paddocks dotted with sheep. The f
lock nibbled on grass and the odd one watched us drive by.
Devon fiddled with the stereo, turning it up, but only static crackled out.
In less than a minute, we were at the railway crossing bordering the town. Large crosses on top of red and white poles with black round sticky-out light-ears, like a group of deconstructed Minnie Mouses, guarded the tracks. I’d learned all about deconstruction from Devon at Christmas while we were solving our first ever mystery—the murder of my school teacher—together with Uncle Pike. Since then Devon’s fashion label had taken off. I was so proud of him, and my uncle who also owned a nightclub and salons in Sydney. I kicked the back of Devon’s seat. It had been four months since they were here, and it had felt like forever, but now they were back it was like they had never left, except for how much I had missed them.
Uncle Pike stopped and craned his neck in both directions, checking to see if a train was coming, even though the red lights weren’t flashing or the bells ringing.
‘Coast is clear,’ Devon said.
We drove straight, waiting again at a stop sign on the corner of Rata Street, then across another block and on to Main Street. Devon oohed and aahed at all the shops, which made my uncle snort and speed up, except when Devon screamed as we passed his favourite fabric shop, Glory Box, and Uncle Pike nearly swerved onto the footpath. We passed Mum’s work, Riverstone Medical Centre, and up ahead was the town’s giant macrocarpa founding tree, planted in 1854, and behind it Riverstone Town Hall with its huge columns and steps. Main Street curved around it and led on to Riverstone Bridge, with its six concrete arches spanning the Clutha River.
A logging truck thundered past us as we drove on. I held my breath, something Dad and I used to do. It took nine seconds to cross the bridge. On the other side I let out my breath. Eight and a half seconds—Uncle Pike was speeding.
On this side of the bridge, Riverstone continued up a hill, which overlooked the flat behind us. Keep driving and you would get to Dunedin, then eventually all the way to the top of the South Island.
But instead we turned right, heading home alongside the riverbank. We drove past the Duncan Nunn Real Estate billboard, a large picture of Duncan Nunn with his weird floating orange hair doing two thumbs up and Number one! written in a speech bubble coming out of his mouth. He was Riverstone’s top real estate agent.
Nancy Business Page 1
