I smiled as I raised my glass. “Here’s to another guaranteed Dusty Kent success.”
“There’s no doubt about that,” she said, grinning and clinking her glass against mine.
I couldn’t help but laugh. At first, although I felt strong attraction to her, I had found her extreme confidence irritating, but I’d grown accustomed to it. Besides, despite her hubris, she was always ready to admit her mistakes. She also had the endearing quality of being a fierce protector of the vulnerable whether they be people or animals.
I studied the glossy cover of Teardrop then turned the book around to look at the smiling face of Marcia Hamilton again.
“According to this blurb,” I said, “she was a widow with four adult children; Fergus, Monique, Lucy and Brad.
“Ah, but that’s not entirely accurate. I mean the bit about the four adult children is true, but strictly speaking she wasn’t a widow. Her husband and father of her children died in 1997 after twenty-five years of married bliss.” I was opening my mouth to point out that that made her a widow when Dusty held up a warning finger and continued. “But, she remarried in 2002. Her second husband was a man by the name of Perry Doran.”
“Perry Doran; sounds like a cocktail,” I said.
Dusty laughed. “Well, the drink didn’t last long; they were divorced in 2004.” She dropped a large white macadamia nut into her mouth, to the annoyance of the magpie.
I studied the photo of Marcia Hamilton again. It was a compelling face. Her clear skin, even white teeth and generous smile radiated beauty, charm, warmth and a vibrant personality. That she should have been the victim of a callous act of violence was a distressing thought.
“She doesn’t look like someone who would attract enemies,” I said.
“You’re right, she doesn’t. And as far as we know, she didn’t have any.”
“Right. So we’re like, talking about a random attack by someone who might not have known her. A robbery gone wrong, perhaps.”
“A robbery gone wrong is one of the police theories,” said Dusty, picking up another macadamia and placing it within reach of the magpie. “But I have a different theory.”
Chapter 3
The next morning we breakfasted at a beachside cafe offering spectacular ocean views, a warm breeze and the smell of sea air. We followed our meal with a walk along the beach before returning to our accommodation where Dusty shared more information about the murder of Marcia Hamilton.
“A day in the life of Marcia Hamilton,” she said, passing several sheets of paper across the wooden table in the courtyard. “Her last day.”
Those sheets of paper told me that on the final day of her life Marcia had spent that Friday morning at home working on a new book and catching up with her correspondence. Just after midday, she left her home and drove into Byron Bay to lunch with a group of friends.
Her friends described her on that day as being ‘full of beans’ and looking forward to staying at the nearby Vipasanna meditation centre. The ladies’ lively lunch finished around three in the afternoon when Marcia returned to Walkara. She tidied up around the house, even though the cleaners had been in the day before, and packed an overnight bag to take with her to the retreat.
At around four in the afternoon, Lucy and her daughter six-year-old Coco, visited Marcia. They were flying back to Sydney on Sunday evening. Lucy, who was divorced from Coco’s father, worked as a television presenter in Sydney. As Marcia would still be at the retreat on Sunday, this was their last opportunity to say goodbye; a final farewell as it turned out. The visit lasted for roughly an hour. Marcia and Lucy enjoyed cool drinks on the balcony while Coco alternated between wandering around the garden and playing on her iPad.
After Lucy and Coco left, Marcia stacked their used crockery in the dishwasher and went upstairs. Based on the usual habits of this tidy and organised woman, it was assumed that she probably laid out her night clothes and turned back the bed. Then she showered and changed for dinner at her son Fergus’s home. Marcia dressed for the mild evening in a short sleeved blue top, dark grey slacks and black ballet style shoes, threw a light shawl over her shoulders and put on a pair of jade earrings.
I interrupted my reading to ask Dusty a question. “She wore a pair of dark slacks and a blue top when she went out to dinner. Are they the clothes that were on the body when she was found?”
Dusty, who was working on the word puzzles in the morning paper, looked up with pen poised and nodded.
“When was she killed?” I asked.
“That’s one of the tricky things. The body had been out in the open too long for the forensic pathologist to establish time of death.”
“So she might have been killed in the evening?”
“The police don’t think so,” Dusty said. “For one thing, her Madame Butterfly shawl was in the laundry basket at her home.”
“The shawl she wore to dinner?”
“Yep. It was a brightly coloured shawl with a pattern that was predominantly pink cherry blossoms. That’s why she called it her Madame Butterfly shawl. Also, the jade earrings she was wearing that evening were on her dresser, her Chanel handbag and car keys were found in her home. The bed appeared to have been slept in. Her night clothes were also in the laundry basket. It looks very much like she returned home after dinner and went for her usual morning walk and that was when she met her death.”
In response to a gradual rise in temperature which would eventually result in a summery day, Dusty removed the long-sleeved cotton shirt she’d been wearing over her T-shirt and draped it over the back of her chair before directing her attention back to her newspaper. I returned to my reading.
After dressing, Marcia went downstairs and into the garage and opened the remote controlled doors. Then she backed her car – an elegant white Mercedes C200 – out of the garage and turned it to face the street at the end of her steep driveway. Even though her car had a reversing camera, she didn’t like backing into the street so she always turned the Mercedes after she exited the garage. Then she drove along Panorama Drive to the house where her eldest daughter Monique lived, two kilometres away in the same winding road.
Marcia wanted to reassure her daughter, the only family member who had a spare key to the house, that there was no need for her to do anything while Marcia was away. It would not be necessary for Monique to go to the house – the garden would not need watering and there were no pets to consider. The letterbox would not need clearing as it was large and locked at the back. Marcia planned on leaving the retreat around five-thirty on Tuesday to be home before six.
After a short visit at Monique’s, Marcia drove another two kilometres to Cape Court: the street where Fergus lives with his two teenage children, Summer and Toby. She arrived at her son’s residence just after six-thirty that Friday evening.
Fergus had fallen awkwardly on the back stairs the day before and as a result had sprained his left ankle and was still wearing a brace. Nevertheless, with the help of Summer, his then eighteen-year-old daughter, he had managed to cook a tasty pasta meal for the family.
Marcia had returned from a trip to America the week before and, as she always did, had brought back souvenirs for her grandchildren. Coco had collected her gifts almost as soon as Marcia had returned home, insisting with the impatience of a child that Lucy take her to her grandmother’s almost before Marcia had time to recover from her jetlag. However, Marcia had not yet had a chance to give Summer and Toby their gifts.
Summer, a budding jazz singer, was thrilled to receive a unique token which gave her membership to a prestigious New York jazz club. Toby’s grandmother had gone to considerable effort and expense to indulge his love for a North American basketball team by securing an official cap, autographed by his favourite player.
After the gift giving, the family had spent a convivial evening together. Fergus had been the subject of good natured jokes about his sprained ankle with Toby suggesting his father was entering old age and brittle bones. Marcia had recounted s
tories of her overseas trip. Their last meal together had been one peppered with laughter and repartee.
Even though she had only a short drive home, Marcia had been careful not to drink too much wine. She left her son’s house around nine saying she wanted to get an early night. The next day, immediately after her morning walk, Marcia was planning on driving to the meditation retreat approximately twenty kilometres away.
I suspended my reading again. “Fergus’s wife wasn’t there that evening?”
Dusty, realising what evening I was referring to, shook her head.
“His wife left him about a year before Marcia was murdered. Rumour has it that she’s living in Sydney with a new man, but nobody knows who he is.”
“Right. So there’s some mystery about what really happened to her?”
Dusty grinned. “Now you’re beginning to think like me – everybody’s a potential murderer; in this case, Fergus. Sorry to disappoint you. The family received a card of condolence from her after Marcia’s death which was on display at the funeral.”
“Right. In that case, the family must know where she lives.”
Dusty shook her head. “She didn’t include an address and the card was posted in Sydney. No clues at all.”
“Surely the police would have contacted her when her mother-in-law was murdered?”
“Actually, she contacted them and gave a statement at a central police station in Sydney. The police probably have her Sydney address, but they haven’t passed it on to Fergus, possibly at his wife’s request.”
“Sounds like she’s hiding from her family.”
“Looks that way.”
“Even her children?”
“Yep.”
I couldn’t contain my consternation. “What sort of mother would do that?”
Dusty shook her head. “Wrong question. What sort of situation would make a mother do that?”
I reflected on her question for a moment before replying.
“Abusive husband?”
Dusty gave me a knowing look. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Chapter 4
Thinking about Fergus Nixon as an abusive husband reminded me that Dusty had not yet enlightened me about her other theory on what really happened to Marcia. I decided to test the water.
“So,” I said, “it’s possible Fergus was violent towards his wife. Maybe towards his mother as well?”
“Hang on. You’re getting ahead of yourself. Besides, Fergus was the one who called me in to help solve the case. You’d hardly expect him to do that if he was the perpetrator of the crime.”
She had a point there. I was glad to have my suggestion squashed; I didn’t really want to think of anyone killing their own mother.
“I think you need to finish your reading before you start speculating.”
“Right,” I said and did as I was told.
At the end of the meal that Friday evening, Summer said goodnight to her grandmother and went to her room to listen to music while Fergus and Toby escorted Marcia outside. Because of his sprained ankle, Fergus stayed on the back decking while Toby walked Marcia to her car which was parked at the end of the path under the jacaranda tree. The last time Fergus saw his mother was when he waved to her as she drove out.
Marcia was seen a short time later by her daughter Monique and her husband who were sitting on the front decking of their home enjoying evening drinks. Their house was built on an elevated site and the decking overlooked the road. As was her habit if she saw them sitting there, Marcia waved and tooted as she went by. That was the last time Monique saw her mother.
Marcia then drove to an observation point near her home where she could sit in the car and enjoy a quiet moment drinking in the night time view of the ocean. This was something she often did and she had mentioned her intentions to the family during dinner. Police believe she parked there for ten to fifteen minutes before returning home. That information was confirmed by the satellite navigation data on her car accessed by the police and by a neighbour who saw Marcia return home at around twenty past nine.
Assuming Marcia had followed her usual habits, she rose early the next morning and went for her walk along the trail that ended at Crow’s Nest – a lookout that offered panoramic views of the bay. She joined the track at the point where it passed near her home, followed it to the end and stayed a few minutes to enjoy the view and listen to the distant roar of the ocean. There was no evidence that she had had breakfast or a beverage before leaving the house, but her family did not think that was odd. Her usual routine was to go for her walk, shower on return and then settle down for breakfast with the newspaper.
When I finished reading I felt that I knew Marcia Hamilton. Sadness that her life had been cruelly taken and anger at the perpetrator of the crime churned within me. I was also chilled by the apparent ease of the murder. The killer had spotted Marcia on the path, picked up a piece of wood, knocked her over the head and rolled her body into the gully. In a matter of minutes her life had been extinguished.
Her body had remained hidden for ten days. That could have stretched to years had it not been for a ranger’s interest in lyrebirds. Apparently, a family of these ground-dwelling Australian birds known for their extraordinary ability to mimic sounds lives in the gully where Marcia’s body was found. To witness the courting dance of one of these shy birds when the male displays its lyre-like tail is a rare treat, probably as rare as finding a four-leaf clover. Believing he had spotted a male lyrebird in full swing, the ranger edged his way quietly and carefully down the side of the gully to get a better view. His interest in the lyrebird instantly dissolved when he saw Marcia’s dead body lying on the floor of the gully.
The fact that she was wearing the clothes she had worn the evening before was not considered significant by the family. They were not dressy clothes, but the sort of casual clothes commonly worn day and evening in the laid-back beach town of Byron Bay. As she was leaving that day for the retreat and had already packed, it was assumed she had decided to wear the same clothes for her walk before putting them out for cleaning. And yet there was something about the description of her clothing that bothered me.
Picking up the sheets of paper again, I reread the section describing what Marcia was wearing: black shoes, charcoal-grey slacks, light blue top, bra, panties. There was something that was not right, but I just couldn’t work out what it was. Although the sound of her chair being pushed back registered in my mind, I hardly noticed Dusty getting up, going inside and reappearing a few minutes later with a tray. The inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee alerted me to her return.
Apparently sensing my need for concentration, Dusty didn’t speak until she had served us each a cup of steaming liquid. I was touched that she had remembered my preference for black coffee in the morning.
“There’s something…” I began. I didn’t finish the sentence, belatedly aware that I might be making a fool of myself.
Dusty looked over her cup at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the discarded newspaper open at the puzzle page with Dusty’s pen lying on top of it. That’s when I realised what it was that was lurking in my subconscious.
“There’s something odd about the list of items on Marcia’s body,” I said. “Something missing.” A gleam came into Dusty’s eyes as she sipped her coffee and waited for me to continue. “You said Marcia always carried a notebook with her on her walks so that she could jot down ideas as they came to her, but no such item was found on her body.”
Dusty lowered her cup and smiled across at me. “Well done, Sean O’Kelly.”
A mixture of feelings rose in me; relief that I hadn’t made a fool of myself and pride that I had apparently managed to impress Dusty. I was getting better at playing detective.
“And that,” she continued, “raises questions. Did Marcia take her notebook that morning? If so, where is it now? If not, why not?”
“Loose ends,” I observed. “Talking of which; isn’t it time you told me about the messag
e Marcia sent to her gardener?”
I knew Dusty had held that piece of information back to deliberately tease me. Because of that I had refrained from asking about it before now.
She gave me a playful grin. “You could have said, ‘the suspense is killing me’.”
“It is!”
“All right. I’ll put you out of your misery.” She finished her coffee and replaced the empty cup on the table before continuing. “This is a very interesting aspect to the case. Marcia’s gardener, Julie Jones, gave birth to her first child the day before Marcia’s body was found. The next day, the very same day Marcia’s dead body was carried out of the gully, Julie received a hand delivered card in a pink envelope from Marcia congratulating her on the birth of her baby girl. Her husband found it in their letterbox and took it into her at the hospital.” Dusty studied my face to gauge my reaction and then continued. “And what’s even stranger, no-one knew the sex of the baby beforehand as the parents opted not to have that disclosed.”
Knowing Dusty took things like superstitions seriously, I thought she might be overreacting to something that could be easily explained.
“Right. Well, although it was a rather macabre thing to do, I’d say someone has sent the card on Marcia’s behalf for some reason.”
“Would you now? The problem is the card contained a personal message to Julie written in Marcia’s handwriting. And that has been verified; it’s definitely her writing.”
She held both hands out in front of her, palms upward, to indicate the difficulty of solving the mystery. It didn’t seem that difficult to me. I thought Dusty was probably revelling in the mystery rather than focusing on trying to solve it. I offered her a solution.
A Devious Mind Page 2
