Her eyes met mine. “That’s Ken.” She picked up her phone and held up her other hand to show me she had her fingers crossed. “Hello.”
To give her some privacy, I went back inside and busied myself on my laptop at the dining table. In what seemed like only a few minutes, she appeared in the open doorway.
I had never seen her so animated. Her face was glowing. Her eyes were shining. She hugged her phone to her breast. Clearly, Ken had delivered some good news about the informant he had been dealing with in relation to Dusty’s mother.
“Guess what?” she said.
I paused my fingers over the keyboard. “The informant?”
She nodded vigorously. “He’s agreed to meet Ken.” She grinned and spun around in a full circle. “He’s agreed to meet Ken,” she said again.
“Something to celebrate,” I said.
We returned to the table in the courtyard and raised our glasses in a toast.
“When is Ken meeting this guy?”
“They haven’t set it up yet, but he’s agreed to a meeting. That’s the first step. And it means he must have some information to offer. He knows something, Sean. He knows something about what happened to my mother.”
Her exuberance was childlike. For a brief moment I saw the image of five-year-old Dusty running through the school gates innocently waving goodbye to her mother on the morning Anna Kent disappeared. It occurred to me that this tenuous link between Ken and his anonymous informant could end in disappointment for Dusty. However, I knew better than to give voice to those thoughts.
When she had calmed down, I returned to our earlier conversation. “What did you mean before, about the murderer not being direct family?”
“I know you don’t want to hear this and you’ve obviously not even thought about it,” said Dusty, refilling our glasses. “I’m talking about Chris.”
“Chris? What –”
Dusty interrupted my planned protest. “He doesn’t have an alibi for the time of the murder and I know he’s not been totally honest with me. I just know it.”
“Why are you determined to cast Chris in the role of murderer?”
“Too much hair; bushy eyebrows and a ponytail hanging down his back,” said Dusty with a playful laugh. “It suggests beastlike qualities.”
I ignored that frivolous comment. “Why would Chris murder his mother-in-law? There’s nothing to indicate he had anything to gain from Marcia’s death.”
“There might be. You haven’t finished your digging into the family’s finances yet, remember.”
“Right. But if we’re considering Chris, shouldn’t we also consider Coco’s father?”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m focusing on those who had means, motive and opportunity. Lucy’s ex-husband wasn’t in Byron the day Marcia was killed. There goes his opportunity. What’s more, he has no motive. By all accounts, he and Marcia got along exceptionally well and he’s a property developer with enough money to last him several lifetimes.”
Dusty helped herself to a handful of crisps and munched on them thoughtfully before continuing.
“We’re stuck with Fergus, Brad and Chris. Which one gets your vote? All right, let’s leave Chris out of it for now.”
“Right.” I considered her question for a few moments. “I can see Brad being drawn to risky behaviour and possibly having a need for admiration –”
“And an overinflated ego,” said Dusty. “Simply because he’s a male.”
“That,” I said, looking at her with mock severity, “is sexist.”
Dusty laughed. “You’re right. I take it back. That’s something I should only say in the company of other females.”
“But,” I continued, “I don’t see him as the sort of person with a need for control.”
“I agree,” said Dusty. “Although, in the interests of keeping an open mind, that affable easy going exterior of his could be hiding a lot more than we know. In fact, narcissistic personalities are often adept at hiding the socially unacceptable elements of their behaviour.”
I remembered that brief moment at the family lunch when Brad’s geniality had suddenly turned glacial. He had looked almost threatening.
“Right. But you think Fergus is more likely?”
It occurred to me that Dusty, although keeping ‘an open mind’, was just as biased toward Brad as I was about Chris.
“Yep. Fergus is much more likely. He’s an actor so it goes without saying that he has an overinflated ego and a need for admiration.” Dusty paused and looked at me with a mischievous look in her eye. “What would you call a prejudice against actors? Thespianism?”
“I have no idea and since I’m not an actor, I have no objections. Do you think he was telling the truth earlier?”
Dusty sipped her wine and polished off several more crisps before answering.
“He exhibited no indicators of lying and seems to be telling the truth about the car and the incident with Luke. If it wasn’t for the fact that his job has trained him to be skilled in presenting false personas, I’d accept what he says without reservation. Even so, that would not exempt him from being Marcia’s murderer. Fergus definitely has a need for control and the movie venture that Marcia considered unsound indicates he is drawn to risky behaviour. And last but not least, being the eldest son in a rich family means it’s likely he has a sense of entitlement – entitlement to all that money, for instance.”
“And yet he’s the one who called you in.”
“But we now know it was Toby who first suggested it.”
“True. But Fergus didn’t have to agree.”
“He might have thought it would look suspicious if he hadn’t agreed. I mean, there has been pressure on the family. As the eldest son, he was probably expected to do something. What plausible reasons could he give for refusing Toby’s request?”
“Good point. But why you? He could have agreed to bring someone in but not necessarily you.”
Dusty shook her head. “Remember what I said about risky behaviour. Inviting me to investigate gave him the opportunity to play a dangerous game. I mean, he’s got away with murder scot free so far. He probably welcomed the challenge of out smarting Dusty Kent – of being the first to do so. That might be the sort of thing he gets off on.”
I wasn’t convinced. “Even though he wouldn’t be able to let anyone know he’d been so clever, not even you?”
“Fergus might be satisfied with that. It would give him a sense of power, nursing a secret knowledge like that.”
“Jaysis! Sounds like some sort of Machiavellian character,” I said, unable to keep my scepticism to myself.
“And that’s exactly the sort of person we’re looking for. He’s been crafty, calculating and deceitful. He knew the obvious suspects for Marcia’s murder would be the people who had something to gain from her death; in other words, family. So, to divert suspicion from family members, he planned this murder to make it look like it was done by an outsider and committed the murder in a public place leaving the field of suspects wide open. That’s what I call a devious mind.”
She dusted the salt from the crisps off her hands, smiling as a couple of birds immediately flew down from a nearby tree to investigate. Even though I agreed that Fergus was the most likely suspect, I still wasn’t ready to accept that he had killed his own mother. I continued my counter argument.
“But, even though we now know it wasn’t Roach, it could still have been a random attack.”
“Could have been, but highly unlikely. I have a feeling we’re looking for a warped mind, close to home; not a random attacker.”
“Is that your famous feeling of certainty?”
She looked at me quizzically.
“Something you said. In Murloo. You said sometimes you know things and you’ve learnt to trust that certainty when you get it. I think you said it was a combination of the Dusty Kent lie detector test and a gut feeling.”
“Yes, I remember. No, that’s not the sort of feeling I mean.”
“What about Fergus? You don’t have a feeling of certainty about him?”
“Not yet. But that might just be a matter of time. Talking of which, it’s time for you to use your hacker, I mean IT, skills to solve a couple of mysteries.”
“The car Fergus claims he saw?”
“Yep. Do you think you could try to track down the owner of the car with the details Fergus gave us?”
“I can try. If the owner is local, I might have a chance. The tinted windows might make it easier to narrow down the possibilities.”
In fact, it would probably be like trying to find a needle in a haystack, but I thought it best to sound positive.
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” said Dusty. “And mystery number two is the missing wife.”
“Missing wife?”
“Fergus’s wife. Why did she leave? Why is she staying away? Your next espionage mission is to see if you can find out what flights Penelope has been taking recently. And see if you can find out her telephone number.”
Little did I know that Penelope would not be the only member of the Nixon family whose disappearance we would be investigating.
Chapter 21
“That was Summer,” said Dusty when she finished the phone call that had come through a few moments earlier. We had been enjoying a quiet Saturday morning. “She’s worried about her uncle.”
“Brad?”
“Yep. He’s disappeared. Summer has tried to call him but his phone’s switched off. None of the family members have heard from him since our meeting at Fergus’s house. They’re not concerned because he often goes away without telling anyone.”
“But Summer is concerned?”
Dusty nodded thoughtfully. “Apparently he told Summer he’d attend one of her performances and he didn’t turn up.”
“And you think she’s right to be worried about him?”
“Possibly. Since I passed on the information to the police about Norman Roach, they’re taking a new approach to the case which means they’ve been re-interviewing the family.”
I remembered what Dusty had said once about a murderer striking again in panic when an investigation seemed to be closing in.
“You mean Brad might know something and the murderer might try to silence him?”
Dusty’s sombre look answered my question.
“Right. So he might have disappeared just after the police started interviewing the family members again. The murderer panicked and…”
Was Brad’s dead body lying at the bottom of a gully?
“That’s what I’m thinking,” said Dusty. “Someone who’s already killed their mother would have no qualms about bumping off a brother who might have the power to expose them, inadvertently or otherwise.”
Dusty, no doubt influenced by Brad’s charm, had apparently not seriously considered the possibility that he might be the murderer. I felt obliged to open her mind.
“On the other hand, Brad might have disappeared because he wanted to avoid being questioned by the police, to avoid being found out.” Dusty placed her phone back on the table without responding. Her silence provoked me. “Don’t you think that’s a more likely scenario?”
“It’s a possible scenario. Not necessarily a more likely one.”
There was another possibility Dusty had probably not considered.
“Or it might be you he’s afraid of.”
Her sceptical expression indicated she considered that to be a ridiculous suggestion. I hastened to explain what I meant.
“He might be afraid of your renowned ability to flush out the truth.”
The sceptical look vanished. She flashed me a brilliant smile and put her head to one side in a coquettish gesture.
“That’s true. If he has something to hide, and I’m sure he does, he might want to avoid being questioned by me.”
“If he’s hiding the fact that he murdered his mother, you mean.”
“No. I didn’t mean that. I don’t think our murderer is the type to run away in order to avoid possible exposure. I think he’s more likely to have a ‘bring it on’ attitude. He’s that sure of himself.”
I knew Dusty was thinking of Fergus. He was looking more and more like the best candidate for murderer.
“Whatever the reason for Brad’s disappearance,” Dusty continued. “We should check it out. He lives above his gallery. Come on, let’s go and see what we can find out.”
Brad’s gallery and residence was a modest affair tucked away in a lane off the main streets of Byron Bay. It was one of several shops and galleries clustered around a paved courtyard. A cafe with outdoor tables protected from the sun by large umbrellas was strategically placed to attract passing trade.
Brad’s was one of the few shops that included a residence. The window of his gallery was dominated by a large, striking painting. At first glance it looked like a collection of geometric shapes painted mostly in different shades of red and orange. However, as I stared at it mesmerised by its power, an image began to emerge from the patterns.
“Looks like a small gallery,” said Dusty, peering through the glass door after finding it locked. “Several paintings on the wall and an artist’s easel set up. He must use the space for painting as well as display.”
Although I heard what Dusty said, I was too interested in the image that was forming in the painting to respond. Dusty came and stood next to me.
“What’s got you so –” She stopped abruptly when she saw the painting.
“Can you see the image in that painting?” I said.
“I can see lots of shapes. That’s what I can see.”
“If you look for long enough, you’ll see the image of a man. A man with a thick head of hair as well as a lot of facial hair. It’s incredible the way Brad’s done it.”
Dusty stared at the painting in silence for a few moments. “Oh, yes. I can see it. Actually, the face looks familiar.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “Yes, but I can’t place him. Maybe he just reminds me of someone.”
“Doesn’t look like a modern face,” I suggested. I thought the facial hair had the hallmarks of the olden days – possibly eighteenth century.
Dusty shook her head. “No, not a modern face. Maybe he’s a member of the Nixon clan from way back. If so, I wonder why Brad thought him significant enough to honour in this way. It’s an extraordinary piece of artwork.”
“He’s won awards for that painting,” said a voice behind us.
We both spun round. So engrossed in the painting were we that we hadn’t heard the man approaching or seen his reflection in the window. He slouched casually in front of us, one hand in the pockets of his pink jeans which matched his T-shirt. An earring in his left ear was almost obscured by his thick, blonde hair.
“It’s a stunning painting,” I said. “Amazing the way he’s incorporated the optical illusion.”
“Judging by your accent, mate,” he said offering me a smile that was warm and friendly, “I’d say that bloke in the painting is a fellow countryman of yours.”
Dusty, focused on what we had come to do, quickly brought a halt to the discussion.
“We’re looking for the artist, actually. Do you know where Brad is?”
The man shrugged, pulled on his earring and looked around as though searching for Brad.
“Nah. Haven’t seen him for days,” he said. “But if you want to buy that painting, you’re out of luck.”
Dusty assured him we were not interested in buying art. We exchanged introductions, discovered his name was Kit and that he owned the photography studio next door.
“Brad won’t sell that painting,” he said, flicking his abundant locks away from his face in a slightly feminine gesture. “He was once offered thirty thousand dollars for it, but he wouldn’t sell.”
Dusty raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Why not?”
“Dunno. Just reckons it’s not for sale.”
“You hinted that the subject of the painting is Irish,” I
said.
Kit directed an incredulous stare at Dusty. “You don’t recognise him then?”
“Well, his face does seem familiar…” Dusty turned back to the painting. Her eyes widened and she knocked the side of her head with the heel of her palm. “Oh my god! Of course. I can see it now.”
Kit chuckled and nodded in satisfaction. I realised this was what I liked to think of as an ‘Australian moment’. One of those moments when the people around me are in the know because they are sharing something that is endemic to Australian culture while I’m totally ignorant and feeling left out.
“Right,” I said, a little irritated. “Care to enlighten me?”
“Ned Kelly!” said Dusty. “You were right, Sean, about it not being a modern face. Brad’s incorporated an image of Ned Kelly in that painting.”
Although I hadn’t recognised the face, I knew who Ned Kelly was. You can’t avoid the legend of Ned Kelly for long in Australia. Not that there’s any reason to evade the remarkable story of a young Australian bushranger of Irish descent who won the hearts of the people. It makes for fascinating reading.
“I can understand Brad choosing Ned Kelly,” said Dusty. “I think he identifies with our famous bushranger.”
Kit agreed. “Bit of a rebel, is Brad. Not really comfortable in that rich family.”
“Yes,” said Dusty. “He refers to himself as the black sheep of the family. Why’s that?”
“Probably cos he dropped out of school to be a struggling artist instead of choosing some high profile, million-dollar career.” Kit dismissed the need for a million-dollar career with a casual shake of his blonde curls.
“His brother chose an acting career,” said Dusty. “I know Fergus has a high profile now, but he must have struggled in the early days.”
“Ah, but Fergus finished university before taking up acting. He didn’t give up everything to follow his dream and suffer financially for it.”
Kit’s chin came up defiantly. An elegant flick of his fingers managed somehow to convey scorn for Fergus and loyalty to Brad.
Dusty suppressed a smile. “I see. So the family doesn’t approve of Brad’s lifestyle?”
“His mother certainly didn’t. Bradley, that’s what she called him, didn’t present the right image, you know. Sometimes he would lose himself in his painting for days and not change his clothes at all during that time. Even slept in them. When he did surface, he’d go around in the clothes he’d been wearing while he was painting – covered in splashes of paint, his hair not combed, beard not shaved and smelling like a homeless hippie. He was a free spirit, but his mother expected more of him.”
A Devious Mind Page 13
