A Devious Mind

by Brigid George

  “I speak six languages and I’m good at picking up on people’s accents. Apart from English, I can speak French, Italian, Mandarin, Hindi and Japanese.”

  This was said in a matter-of-fact way without any hint of boasting. She might have been telling me she could recite the two times tables.

  “I’m from County Roscommon,” I said, in answer to her question.

  “Ah,” she said with a knowing nod. “Did you know the first president of Ireland came from Roscommon?” Almost before I had a chance to indicate with a nod that I was aware of that fact, Coco continued. “And the second president of Ireland was called Sean O’Kelly?” I nodded to that as well but Coco was not to be beaten. “I bet you didn’t know that it’s because of Ireland that Australia has Aussie Rules football.”

  This was something I was not aware of. Seeing the surprise on my face, Coco continued. “Irish people migrated here during the Gold Rush in the 1800s. They brought Gaelic football here. That’s how Aussie Rules began.”

  At this point Lucy interrupted. “Coco,” she said. Her tone sounded a warning note.

  Coco giggled. “Okay, Mum. I’m going.” But before she scampered up the stairs, she said, “We must talk again sometime, Sean. Next year I’m going to learn to speak Gaelic.”

  If that bantam genius intended testing my knowledge of Ireland’s official language, she would be severely disappointed.

  When the tinkling sound of the bells on Coco’s anklet faded away, testifying that she was safely out of earshot, Dusty turned the family’s attention to the business she had come to discuss.

  “One of the things I need for the book I’ll be writing is to have as complete a picture of Marcia as possible,” she said. “Perhaps I could get your thoughts on what sort of person your mother was.”

  Fergus was the first to respond. “She was a kind and generous person; a very devoted mother and grandmother. Her children always came first, but she didn’t spoil us. What I mean is, she tried to make sure we learned life’s lessons rather than molly-coddling us.”

  There were murmurs of assent from Monique and Lucy.

  “Mum was great. You couldn’t ask for a better mother,” said Lucy, looking a little tearful.

  “She never begrudged spending time with us when we were young,” said Monique. “She would run around on the beach with us, take us for long walks or to the park, all sorts of things. She was always there; laughing and being playful. We didn’t think of her as an adult, if you know what I mean; she was just one of us.”

  “That’s right,” said Lucy, with a defiant toss of her head as though expecting someone to challenge her opinion of her mother. “Mum was fun.”

  “But Fergus is right,” added Monique. “She didn’t spoil us. She wasn’t afraid to be strict with us when we needed it.”

  “What about when you were adults? What was she like then?”

  “Great,” said Fergus, a little too quickly. “She was always a great mother.”

  “What was she like with money?” asked Dusty with her usual knack for spotting vulnerability.

  Fergus frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Was she generous in supplying money to each of you if you needed it?”

  The three siblings looked at each other. It was as if they were using their eyes to send each other a warning.

  “We each have good jobs,” said Fergus. “None of us needed to be kept by Mum.”

  “I’m not talking about handouts,” said Dusty. “Even people with good jobs can find themselves short at times. Did any of you ever feel the need to borrow money from your mother?”

  Monique ran a finger around the base of her wine glass. Fergus lowered his eyes. Lucy fingered the red pendant around her neck.

  “Let’s get these dishes cleared, Sums,” said Toby, pushing back his chair.

  Our empty plates had already been removed and stacked in the dishwasher but a couple of half empty salad bowls and an empty platter remained. Summer and Toby gathered them up. We soon heard the soft whir of the dishwasher in the background. Dusty waited for an answer to her question.

  “Fergus,” she said, “if you want me to conduct a thorough investigation, you’re going to have to be straight with me. I have to know everything. That’s the way it works. Let me be the one to judge whether the information you give me is relevant to the case.”

  “All right,” he said, leaning back and folding his arms across his chest. “Yes. Mum could be a bit cautious about money sometimes. There’ve been occasions when she’s knocked us back when we’ve asked for money.”

  “What did you ask her for money for?”

  Fergus hesitated. I wasn’t sure if he was controlling his annoyance at being asked personal questions or merely reluctant to reveal why he needed the money.

  “I want to move into directing,” he said. “I have an idea for a movie but I need backing to get things started. I asked Mum if she would either invest in the project or lend me the money. She refused. She had huge trusts set up for each of us but we could only access them after her death. All I was asking was that I borrow from the trust at a time when I needed it rather than wait to get it sometime in the future.”

  There was an edge of defiance in his voice, as though he still couldn’t understand why he had been refused money he believed was his entitlement. I was sure he would have been indignant with his mother at the time.

  “Why did she refuse?”

  Fergus sighed. “She felt that it would be a waste of money; she thought it was too risky. I’m well known as an actor but I have no experience as a director. She suggested I hire a well-known director to make the movie. That wasn’t the point. Mum didn’t understand that. It wasn’t just about making the movie, I wanted to change careers.”

  “How did you feel when your mother refused?”

  Monique and Lucy looked at their brother and then at each other. Fergus grimaced at what was apparently an unpleasant memory.

  “I was gutted, if you must know. At first. But I wasn’t entirely surprised. I knew that she would look at it clinically and in a business-like way and wouldn’t allow the fact that I was her son to influence her analysis of the project. I understood that and respected her decision… once I’d calmed down.”

  I wondered if his candour was the result of his family’s presence; difficult to gloss over things or lie about them when the people around the table knew the truth. Monique leaned forward.

  “But our mother could be very generous, especially if she felt it was warranted,” she said. Fergus nodded in agreement. “For instance,” his sister continued, “she gave each of us money as well as gifts for our twenty-first birthdays and paid for the deposit on our homes. That’s the sort of generosity she was capable of. It’s just that she wasn’t foolish with money and she wouldn’t shower money on any of us willy-nilly. She didn’t hesitate to help us buy our homes, but if we wanted anything more – investment properties, for example – it was up to us to find the money. That’s just the way she was.”

  “Mum got that from Granddad,” said Lucy. “That’s the way he was with money, too.”

  “Her father, you mean?” said Dusty.

  Lucy nodded.

  “Did she inherit a lot of money from him?”

  “Not that much,” said Lucy, looking across at her brother for confirmation.

  “Most of her money she made herself from her books,” said Fergus. “That’s the way it was for Granddad too. He didn’t make millions but what he made, he made from his own hard work. That’s the sort of ethic he taught Mum.”

  Dusty nodded her understanding. “So… she expected you all to have a similar work ethic and make your own way financially?”

  The three siblings chorused their assent.

  “What about your careers?” pressed Dusty. “Was she able to help out there? Would she use her contacts to help if she could? For instance, she might have known people in the television industry. That could have helped you, Lucy.”

  “Me?�
� A blush rose to Lucy’s cheeks.

  “It wasn’t her television career Luce wanted Mum to help her with,” said Monique.

  Lucy bit her lip and glared at her sister as if to say: What’s your problem?

  Monique shrugged. “It’s no big deal, Luce,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” asked Dusty.

  “I wanted to be a writer like Mum.” Lucy tossed her head, as she had before. It seemed to be her way of expressing rebellion. “I wanted to give up television and write. Mum was very supportive. She said it would be marvellous to have another writer in the family. But…”

  Dusty finished what Lucy hesitated to say.

  “But she wouldn’t stake you.”

  “Yeah, funny that. I was really just asking for an advance, like Fergus, on the trust money. I thought she’d understand. She knew how difficult it was to get started as a writer, and she understood how hard it was for a working single mother to find time to do other things. She suggested that I should first write something to see whether I could produce books that would sell well before I gave up my career in television.”

  “How did you feel about that? You went to her for practical help by way of money and she gives you motherly advice instead.”

  Lucy offered Dusty a rueful smile. “At first I was really angry. I behaved very badly.”

  “Had a tantrum because she couldn’t get what she wanted; just like she used to do when we were kids.”

  It wasn’t difficult to imagine Lucy, who had a little-girl look about her, having a childish tantrum.

  Lucy ignored her sister but shot her a glance that might have been a poor substitute for throwing something at her.

  “In the end, I understood her point of view. If I dropped out of television, it would be hard to get back in if writing didn’t work out. What Mum said actually made a lot of sense.”

  “And have you started writing?” said Dusty.

  Lucy smiled. This time her smile was warm and broad so that it softened her face and enhanced the youthful look created by her simple fringed hairstyle.

  “Yes, I have. Sometimes it’s difficult finding the time, but I keep at it.”

  “Auntie Luce is writing the Nixon family saga,” said Toby with a cheeky grin as he and Summer returned to the table after completing their work in the kitchen.

  “Tobes, don’t be a smart aleck,” said Summer.

  “Don’t take any notice of Toby,” said Lucy. “The book I’m writing has nothing to do with the family.”

  “And that’s probably just as well because now we have Dusty Kent to write the family saga,” said Monique, acknowledging Dusty with a tilt of her wine glass.

  “What’s this about family saga?”

  Brad Nixon took us all by surprise as he breezed into the room like a yacht sailing into port on a clear day.

  Chapter 10

  His loose fitting cotton shirt in bright red, knee length white shorts and leather sandals gave him a casual, almost sloppy, look. An expansive smile accompanied the wave he swung in a wide arc at us.

  “You must be Dusty Kent,” he said, walking around the table to Dusty and shaking her hand. Was it my imagination or did he hold her hand a little longer than was necessary?

  The rosy glow in Dusty’s cheeks told me that Brad was one of those men who could ignite a spark in women without even trying. That was at odds with the hints I had picked up about him; his preference for the company of men. Possibly disconcerted by her own reaction, Dusty quickly turned Brad’s attention to me.

  “And this is my assistant, Sean O’Kelly.”

  He offered me a firm handshake, sat down next to Toby at the other end of the table and poured himself a glass of wine.

  “Here’s to family sagas,” he said, raising his glass in a toast to which no-one responded, although Summer giggled and Toby patted his uncle lightly on the back.

  “So the famous Dusty Kent has come to dig up all the family secrets?” said Brad, looking down the table at Dusty, apparently unperturbed by the cool reception from his siblings.

  “I’ve come to find out as much as I can about your mother,” said Dusty. Although the flush had left her cheeks and her attitude was professional, her smile was enough to tell me she liked Brad Nixon. “I need to know as much as possible about Marcia. The better I know her, the more likely I am to find out who her murderer is.”

  Brad cast a glance around the table. “I’m sure you’ve already heard what a wonderful mother she was. I second all the great things that have been said about Mum. But no doubt you want to hear the other side of the coin as well. Since I’m the black sheep of the family, I’ll take on that thankless task.”

  “Uncle Brad,” said Summer. “You’re not…”

  Brad brushed aside her protests. “Not to put too fine a point on it, Mum was a bit of a control freak,” he said, waving away the murmurs of protest from those around the table. “Come on, we have to give Dusty the truth. We all loved Mum, but that doesn’t mean she was perfect. Just like any other human being she had faults. Come to think of it, needing control might have been her only real fault. Even when we were kids, she liked control. On the surface she gave us a free and easy lifestyle. She was living like a hippie – but there was a line you didn’t cross over. Mum expected obedience when she laid down the law.”

  “That’s what mothers are supposed to do,” interrupted Monique, glaring at her younger brother.

  “The trouble was,” continued Brad, with barely a pause, “I think Mum sort of felt adrift when her kids started to cut the apron strings. That feeling got worse after Dad died. By this time we were all adults and going our own way. She was afraid of losing the close family unit; that cocoon where she felt safe. The only way she could think of to keep us close was to use her money to try to manipulate what we did.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” said Monique.

  Fergus furrowed his brow. “She was just cautious where money was concerned.” He gave his brother an icy stare. “It’s not the first time you’ve imagined Mum to be a master manipulator.”

  Brad’s eyes narrowed and for a brief moment his amiable countenance faded. Fergus had obviously touched a raw nerve and I wondered why his remark had disturbed Brad. Lucy cut in quickly.

  “Brad,” she said, giving him an indulgent smile. “You know Mum only ever did what she thought was best for us.”

  Brad took a sip of wine and gave each of his siblings a pitying look before continuing. “My brother and sisters subscribe to the politically correct but ridiculous idea that it’s not cricket to speak the truth about someone after they’ve died. The truth is, as Mum got older she started to tighten the financial strings even more. I think she believed she’d been too easy-going with her kids and this had prevented them from developing backbone. Myself being a case in point. Being the youngest child, I probably benefited the most from her lenient parenting so I suppose it follows that I’m the one who ended up with the least backbone.”

  “You got that bit right,” said Fergus.

  This time Brad, whose bonhomie had returned, was not troubled by his brother’s comment. He grinned and inclined his wine glass toward Fergus in a casual salute.

  “And she wasn’t about to let us off the hook after she died,” he said. “Although I’m sure she didn’t expect to die as soon as she did or the way that she did. That her death was a monstrous tragedy is something we all agree on.” His voice softened and his shoulders drooped during the last sentence.

  The sound of Louis Armstrong singing What a Wonderful World abruptly interrupted the conversation. It took me a few seconds to realise it was a mobile phone ring tone.

  “That’s mine,” said Toby, reaching into the pocket of his sports pants.

  He was about to bring the phone up to his ear when Fergus cleared his throat and fixed an admonishing stare on his son. Taking the hint, Toby obligingly removed himself to the back of the living area, sinking down into a sofa and swinging his legs over the end arm. We could he
ar his voice murmuring in the background.

  I studied Brad. Even though Dusty’s reaction to him had stirred feelings of jealousy in my usually placid nature, I couldn’t help but like him. He seemed too relaxed and affable to commit the heinous crime of murdering his own mother. And yet, I sensed an underlying resentment towards Marcia and, judging by his attitude to money, it wasn’t to do with the way his mother controlled her finances. There was some other pique simmering below the surface, something Fergus had touched on earlier with his reference to Brad imagining his mother a master manipulator.

  “Are you referring to the fact that your trust funds cannot be accessed until five years after Marcia’s death? Is that what you mean by not letting you all off the hook, Brad?” said Dusty.

  The terms of Marcia’s will were eerily prophetic. Although each of her children would receive an equal share of her estate, she had stipulated that in the event of her death resulting from other than natural causes, no money was to be released to any of the beneficiaries until the fifth anniversary of her passing.

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” said Brad, reaching for a nearby wine bottle to refill his glass.

  Dusty glanced at the others. “Did any of you know that she had included that limitation in her will?”

  Toby returned to the table, dropping his phone back into his pocket and smoothing his hair which had become slightly ruffled.

  “Mum was much too astute to share that little piece of information with us,” said Brad.

  “I remember once,” said Toby, slipping back into his seat, “Nan said she could change her will at any time. It was right here at this table. I think we were having lunch, just like today. Do you remember her saying that, Dad?”

  He gave his father a look of boyish innocence. Fergus shook his head.

  “I think she was a bit upset with something you’d done that day, Dad. But I don’t think she was serious, about changing her will. It was just her way of letting you know she was upset. It probably looked like she was being unfair or trying to control everyone, but Nan was too nice to do anything mean.”