Devon leaned forward to get a better look. ‘I can’t believe that’s still there.’
‘He’s everywhere,’ I said. Duncan Nunn’s ads were always in the paper and his posters were all over town.
Uncle Pike glanced at Devon. ‘I told you nothing changes in this hole.’ He turned to me. ‘How long has Duncan’s sign been up there, Tippy?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t remember it not being there.’
‘See?’ my uncle said to Devon.
Just before a blind corner, we turned left and headed uphill towards the golf course. People across the river called where we lived ‘Snobs’ Hill’. A right turn then another right on to our dead-end street, and then up to our white weatherboard house with its red tin roof. Our section sloped down a steep hill but out the front of our place was a wraparound balcony with clear views of the town, the river and the bridge, to the distant hills beyond. With binoculars you could see the back of the town hall, the giant founding tree, the shops and the roof of Mum’s work on Main Street, then all the way over to the old abandoned hospital on the far hill on the way out of town.
We parked beside our mailbox. Mum’s car was in the driveway and the garage door was up. I opened my door and jumped down from my seat.
‘It’s nice to be home,’ Devon said, as he got out of the twin-cab and stretched backwards.
Uncle Pike slammed his door. ‘Cue the screeching bat.’ He peered over at the Browns’ house next door, which was a brown brick box with brown aluminium windows, and everything inside it was brown as well. We shared a garden with them without a fence.
‘You just missed them,’ I said. ‘They’re visiting the farm with Melanie.’ Her dad, Mr Brown’s son, had a cattle farm down south but Melanie lived with her grandparents during the school term. This time of the year massively sucked for her as well. Two weeks before Dad’s accident Melanie’s mum had died of cancer. I rubbed the back of my neck. I hadn’t seen Melanie since Easter, three weeks ago, and forgotten to text her on her mum’s anniversary. She had remembered Dad’s and sent me a message this morning. I still hadn’t replied. What was wrong with me? I wasn’t even sure if she knew Uncle Pike and Devon were in town, or that they had bought Riverstone’s old murder house, Number Four Ronsdale Place. Though knowing Mrs Brown, it was pretty likely Melanie was up to date with all the local news.
I followed my uncle and Devon through the garage and inside the hallway. Mum’s bedroom door was open and she was getting changed.‘I can’t believe you’re locals now,’ she called out as we passed.
‘Yuck,’ Uncle Pike said. ‘I didn’t think of that when we bought the place.’
‘That Duncan Nunn really is number one,’ Devon said. ‘The house has so much potential, with such beautiful bones. It is terrible now but soon it will be our perfect escape to the country.’ I frowned as we entered the living room. I remembered Number Four being creepy and damp when we searched it for clues at Christmas. And it was in Riverstone, not in the country. Normally, with binoculars, you would be able to see the murder house from our living room windows if you looked just above the old abandoned hospital, but today a blanket of low drizzly cloud had creeped in and covered the faraway hills. The house had been built by Riverstone’s first hospital boss, Dr Ronsdale. It was also where he had murdered his family and killed himself. I wondered if we would find any remains or clues in the walls or under the floorboards. ‘I can’t wait to see what you’ve done,’ I said.
‘Not much yet,’ Uncle Pike said. ‘Rewiring and removal of the sconces—’
Devon shuddered and sat on the couch.
‘—and got rid of that deep-freezer in the garage,’ Uncle Pike continued. He glanced at Devon who had leaned forward, elbows on knees, massaging his temples. In December, Devon had opened that deep-freezer and discovered my school teacher’s frozen scalped head inside.
I joined Devon on the couch and gave him a big hug. Uncle Pike had told me that Devon was still having nightmares and hadn’t slept properly since. Part of me wondered why they’d then buy that house? Mum had said no one had wanted it after the news came out, and that they got it super cheap, but still …
‘We have discussed it,’ Uncle Pike said to me. ‘And we would like to hire you, Tippy Chan, as Devon’s P.A.’ Devon pointed to himself and bowed. I had no idea what a P.A. did.
Uncle Pike continued, ‘Is a hundred dollars a day okay?’
My mouth dropped open. Over the holidays that would be nearly a thousand dollars. I tried to keep my poker face. ‘Sure, thanks,’ I said. Whatever the job was, I could wing it; I wasn’t going to turn down more money than I’d ever had in my life.
Devon hugged me and yelled, ‘Yay!’ in my ear.
‘Good,’ my uncle said. ‘Personal assistant sorted.’ He held out his hand and I shook it. P.A. Personal Assistant. I would search what they did later. I remembered Uncle Pike and Devon telling me their renovation project would be ‘glocal’. They wanted to shop local but I wasn’t sure what the ‘g’ stood for—maybe gay? I didn’t know if I would need to know any of that for my new job.
Over the school holidays I would be staying with them at an Airbnb in the middle of Riverstone on the flat. They had booked it before Mum could say no. She had told them they could have had her room and she’d sleep in mine while I had the couch. But Uncle Pike would not hear of it and Devon was excited about staying in town.
Mum, meanwhile, had locked in as many shifts at her work as she could while I was being ‘babysat’, even though I told her I was twelve and could babysit myself.
She had laughed. ‘After last time?’
I didn’t bother replying that last time Uncle Pike, Devon and I had caught a murderer and got an innocent woman, Sally Homer, released from jail. It had also cost me my best friend, Sam Campbell, and Mum hers, Dr Lisa—Sam’s mum. And it had kind of ruined Sam’s life, but if another mystery came along while my ‘babysitters’ were in town then the Nancys would have to re-form and investigate. Fingers crossed. I had been looking for a case really hard since Christmas, but nothing ever happened here. If only Mum was a lawyer like Nancy Drew’s dad, Carson Drew. He had the best clients with lots of interesting cases. It wasn’t fair. So far Mum’s nursing job had turned up zero cases for me to investigate.
Uncle Pike patted the silver espresso machine he had ordered last time he visited, after declaring Riverstone to be in a ‘coffee drought’. ‘How’s this been going?’
I shrugged. Mum had pulled it out of the cupboard the day before they arrived. ‘I don’t drink coffee,’ I said.
‘Broken.’ Mum lifted up a jar of instant and shook it. ‘Can I make anyone a real coffee?’
My uncle was speechless.
Devon stood up and put his arm around him. ‘No offence, Helen, but we wouldn’t drink that even if we were camping.’ He turned to me. ‘Sorry, Tippy, we don’t camp.’
Mum muttered something about ‘camp’ under her breath as she switched on our noisy jug.
‘We don’t either,’ I said. My parents hated camping. Dad had said it reminded him of that ‘witch movie with the snot’.
Devon brought out a black folder and sat down beside me. ‘This is the bible, but like, not literally.’
‘But literally,’ Uncle Pike said, leaning over the couch behind us.
‘Your scrapbook inspired me,’ Devon said.
‘Which one?’ I asked.
‘The murder one,’ Uncle Pike replied.
‘What?’ Mum called from the kitchen as the jug began to make its jet engine noise.
‘You know,’ Devon said. ‘The Nancys one, with the cute animal stickers.’
I smiled. It had been where I had kept newspaper clippings and notes about clues from our investigation. Now I had my own tablet for that.
Devon opened the folder. ‘Welcome to my mind-vision.’ Glued on black pages were photos of kitchens and bathrooms, paint swatches, floorboard finishes and fabric samples. He turned the pages slowly. It reminded me of the collages
we did at school in art class. I turned a page. Gold glitter surrounded a list, written in metallic gold pen and shaped like a pyramid.
‘What’s this?’ I asked.
It was headed ‘Things that are Sparkly’:
Tippy
Glitter nail polish
The flick of a cat’s tail
Pike’s eyes after a roller-coaster
‘Devon’s new muse,’ Uncle Pike said from behind us.
‘Shh,’ Devon said. ‘I’m telling her. And no one replaces my muse, Bunny Whiskers.’ He turned to me. ‘Your waving cat inspired me BTW.’ Last holidays Devon had designed me a nightie based on Piggy-Cat, my Maneki Neko money box from Dad.
He grabbed my hands. ‘But Sei Shonagon. Oh my God, she is amazing. One of my new favourite Divas.’
‘Like Cher?’ I said. They had also taught me about Divas last trip.
‘Exactly,’ Devon said. ‘The Pillow Book, have you read it?’
‘Japanese courtesan in the early one thousands,’ Uncle Pike said.
I wasn’t sure the one thousands were a thing. I shook my head.
‘Anyway,’ Devon said, nudging me.‘“Hateful things” is my favourite. You have to read it.’
‘Things you hate?’ I asked.
‘No, but great idea!’ Devon said.
My uncle groaned. I was confused. I turned the page and in pointy gold letters was another list, shaped like a Christmas tree. This time gold daggers pointed at it, or sharks’ teeth, it was hard to tell.
This one was headed ‘Things that leave question marks?’:
An ill-fitting pant
A webpage that never loads
People’s surprise when wild animals attack
GREEN
I pointed to the shouty-caps word GREEN. ‘Still not a fan?’
Devon grimaced. ‘I mean, really?’ He turned the page.
Behind us Mum kissed Uncle Pike on the cheek. ‘Be good,’ she said to us and left to get ready for work. ‘Tippy,’ she called out from the hallway.
What now? I sighed and pushed myself up, following her.
Mum stood in her bedroom doorway. ‘You sure you’re okay, honey? I feel bad leaving you on Dad’s anniversary.’
I shrugged. ‘Whatever. You’ve got to work.’ Except today was supposed to be special, about remembering Dad. Did she even care? I hitched my shoulders back up.
She frowned. ‘You don’t seem okay?’
I took a step back and tried to smile, avoiding her eyes. ‘It’s fine.’ It so wasn’t but any other time I had asked her to stay she’d gone anyway.
‘Okay, I love you,’ Mum said, and kissed my head.
I nodded and walked off to the living room, barely glancing back at her. Ignoring the details I would normally memorise, just in case, like with Dad, it was the last time I’d see her.
CHAPTER TWO
Uncle Pike and Devon’s Airbnb on Hope Street smelled damp and funny, a bit like cat pee in a dryer. We were only half a block away from the Riverstone Bulletin office, on the corner of Hope and Rata Street. Everybody called our local newspaper the Bully, and it came out on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Diagonally across the road from it was Dad’s old office, his name and accountancy sign long since painted over. A new For Sale sign was stuck on the window, the space behind it empty after the craft shop that had been there at Christmas moved out.
I dumped my bag by the kitchenette in the small open-plan room and checked out the welcome wicker basket on the bench. A loaf of bread, three oranges and UHT milk. Yuck. Out the kitchen window Devon looked bewildered as he wheeled his Louis Vuitton suitcase down the rough concrete path towards the house.
He stepped through the door and gazed around in horror, then immediately covered his eyes. ‘Oh my God,’ he said. ‘Tippy, no pictures of me in this dump. I’m serious. There are not enough filters to fix this mess.’
‘Wow, you sound like Uncle Pike,’ I said.
Devon peeked through his fingers. ‘Really?’ He slowly dropped his hands but his grimace stayed. ‘On second thoughts that faux wood-panelling could work … as long as you keep everything else out of shot. And I mean everything, and change my pin to Scandinavia.’
Uncle Pike crashed through the doorway behind Devon, carrying everything else from the ute. Gym bags hung off his massive shoulders, and in one hand he clasped a couple of duty-free plastic bags while the other wheeled a giant red suitcase. He dropped the suitcase and gently placed the duty-free on the bench. Besides tequila and his usual bottles of single malt, this time my uncle had bought me a jumbo packet of TimTams. Uncle Pike moved to the middle of the room before shaking himself like a wet dog, unloading the remaining bags all over the strange blood-red carpet with caramel brown splotches. Its pattern didn’t really make any sense; the size of the splotches and their colour reminded me of roast turkeys.
‘Scandinavia’s hot,’ Uncle Pike said, then frowned at the carpet.
‘Isn’t it cold there?’ I asked.
‘Freezing,’ Devon said. ‘Like here. I’m going to need more pashminas.’ He hugged himself. ‘Are you sure this is the same place we came to at Christmas?’
‘No, we didn’t come to this place,’ my uncle said, wrinkling his nose.
Devon held my hand and looked serious. ‘Promise you’ll tell me if I start to smell like this place?’
I nodded. ‘I promise.’
‘Never thought I’d miss the monkey motel,’ Uncle Pike said. ‘Why didn’t we stay there?’ He poked around the kitchen. ‘Are you sure we’re in the right house?’ He lifted up a weird wooden doll with no face, riding a wire tricycle. ‘And not some serial killer’s childhood home?’
It was creepy. I shuddered and checked the front door, hoping it wouldn’t suddenly fly open to reveal a deranged mother, furious to find us in her house. I rubbed my arms to warm myself up as I looked around. It wouldn’t have surprised me if I discovered a clown outfit stuffed under my bed and dead cats in the garden.
‘Close to the cafes,’ Devon said. ‘I thought it might be nice to try something local.’
‘Really? You have been to Riverstone before?’ My uncle hid the tricycle doll in a kitchen cupboard. ‘Low cinderblock fence out the front didn’t raise any alarms?’
‘And it has a deck.’ Devon pulled open the curtains. The windows were fogged up and trickles of condensation ran down them. He shrieked and stepped back. ‘What is happening?’
I wiped them with my sleeve. We peered outside at the deck’s soggy boards. Moulting trees in the overgrown garden had spattered the deck. Long brown cabbage tree leaves mixed with smaller autumnal firey-orange oak ones.
‘Look, mushrooms,’ I said, pointing to a clump near the railing.
‘I wonder if they’re magical,’ Devon said.
Uncle Pike joined us. ‘I know some fairies who’d love some.’ He wiped the window more. ‘Boo.’ His shoulders sagged. ‘Not these ones. Remind me to go looking, Tippy.’
‘Sure,’ I said, not really knowing what he was talking about.
He tapped on the glass. ‘And don’t eat those,’ he said to me.
I crossed my arms. ‘I’m not three.’
‘Of course not.’ He patted me clumsily on the head. ‘Pat, pat.’
‘No!’ I ducked away, laughing until a metal scraping sound sent a shiver running down my spine. ‘What’s that?’
‘Witches’ fingernails,’ Uncle Pike said.
Devon’s eyes widened and he hugged me.
‘Relax,’ my uncle said. ‘It’s a tree branch scratching on the corrugated-iron roof.’
‘I hate it.’ Devon clung to the curtains. ‘Help,’ he yelled at the window. ‘We’re trapped!’
I giggled. ‘Help!’ I joined in.
‘It’s got a pot-belly fire,’ Uncle Pike said, ignoring our pleas.
Devon frowned at the corner fireplace. ‘That black kettle thing is hardly romantic.’ He gasped as he spotted the shiny striped rug beside the sofa, shrinking away from it and shieldi
ng his eyes with his arm like a vampire from the sun. ‘I thought nothing was worse than the burgundy carpet with whatever that brown pattern is supposed to be—’
‘Roast turkeys,’ I suggested.
‘Really?’ Devon said. ‘Is that a New Zealand thing?’
I laughed and shook my head.
‘This is all bordering on total blindfold territory.’ Devon hid behind his arm again as he spotted a tall metal roadrunner sculpture with slots in its belly beside an old black box TV.
‘CD tower,’ Uncle Pike said. ‘Yep, we’re in the right place.’ He pulled out the only CD. On its cover were photos of a dark-haired woman and a guy in sunglasses.
Devon leaned over his shoulder to have a look. ‘Best of The Corrs,’ he read out loud. I took it off my uncle and checked out the songs on the back of the case. We could play it in the ute.
‘Probably should get a fire going and dry this place out,’ Uncle Pike said. He lifted up a brown leather visitors’ book. ‘Last entry was seven months ago from a Lena and Tobias.’ He laughed. ‘They were not kind. Wi-Fi not working … Apparently the same smell existed back then as well. They also claimed the pictures on the website and weather were not as described. Hope Street more like “Shit Street”. They finish off by saying the owners are untrustworthy … But they used the “C” word.’
‘That does sounds like a very comprehensive review,’ Devon said. ‘Lucky we’re doing a digital detox again, otherwise I might be reviewing it online right now.’ He frowned. ‘Leaving all our devices behind in Sydney feels so reckless. My poor babies.’
‘Did you bring the soap phone you made during your last detox?’ I asked.
‘Your uncle used it …’ Devon hung his head and shook it. ‘As soap.’
I held his hand. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘See?’ Devon said to Uncle Pike. ‘Tippy gets it.’
Nancy Business Page 2
