Toby looked at us. “Summer blames me for losing it, just because I was the last person she saw with it.”
“Tobes won’t admit it,” said Summer, “but he was cheesed off when Nan didn’t buy him what he wanted for his sixteenth birthday last year. I think it was the first time Nan had ever refused to buy him what he asked for.”
“Come on!” protested Toby. “I wasn’t serious.”
“You were serious,” said Summer. “You actually wanted Nan to buy you a Porsche for your birthday.”
“A Porsche!” Dusty and I exclaimed in unison.
Toby’s brash manner softened into what bordered on embarrassment, at least as close to embarrassment that the precocious young Toby was capable of.
“Yes,” said Summer. “A brand new Porsche. He wouldn’t even have been allowed to drive it for a couple of years, not until he got a full licence.”
“Exactly,” said Toby. “That should tell you I wasn’t serious.”
“Oh, you were serious all right,” said Summer. “And that’s why he won’t give me back my Bourbon Street pass; because Nan gave me something I really, really wanted. I know you’re hiding it somewhere. It’s mine and you have to give it back to me.”
“All right then,” said Toby, taking his sister’s hand. “Come and search my room. Search anywhere you like. I don’t have your precious pass.”
If Dusty had asked about the pass in order to distract Summer from her worries about her family, I think she succeeded. Brother and sister clambered up the stairs to Toby’s room. Lucy, perhaps to deflect some of the guilt she felt at upsetting her niece, admonished Fergus.
“The children shouldn’t have been here listening to all this talk about murderers.”
Fergus protested. “They both insisted they wanted to be a part of the meeting. It wouldn’t have been much use telling them they couldn’t be here; they would’ve found a way to listen to our discussion anyway.”
“If it’s okay with you, Fergus,” said Chris, slipping over to the bar area, “I think we could all do with a drink.”
After taking our orders and pouring the drinks, Chris returned with them on a tray which he set down on the low table.
“What did you mean about driving to Nimbin to look for Brad?” asked Fergus, reaching for a cold glass of beer for himself and handing a white wine to Lucy.
“I thought it would be a good idea to see if he’s staying at his property there.”
“What property?” chorused Fergus and Lucy.
When Dusty explained we had discovered that Brad owned a house in Nimbin, it was clear from the reaction of his two siblings they knew nothing about it.
Fergus shrugged and said, “Not surprising really. The family doesn’t see much of Brad. We have no idea what he’s up to most of the time.”
“He must have bought a house in Nimbin from the proceeds of some of his paintings,” said Lucy, who appeared to have relinquished her antagonism toward Dusty.
She glanced up at the digital wall clock. Coco must be due to be picked up from her physics lesson soon. Since meeting Coco, I had researched Mensa kids and discovered some of the mind-boggling intellectual achievements they are capable of. As a result, I was not as taken aback as I might otherwise have been when Lucy mentioned Coco had read Stephen Hawking’s book.
“You don’t think anything has happened to Brad, do you?”
Fergus was now looking concerned. It was probably the first time he had seriously considered the possibility of Brad being in trouble. Or was it something else? If Dusty was right about his being the murderer, he might not be concerned about Brad being missing but about Brad coming out of hiding and revealing what he knows.
“I hope Lucy’s fears about his safety are unfounded,” said Dusty. She was watching Fergus closely; perhaps she was also trying to read his true feelings. “But there’s a possibility Brad knows something about the murder and has gone into hiding because of it. On the other hand, he might have simply needed to get away for a while.”
“I think that’s a more likely explanation,” said Fergus with a nod.
“I’d like to know what Brad’s other secret is,” said Dusty.
“Secret?”
“What do you mean?”
Dusty looked at Chris. “What was it that Monique didn’t want you to tell us about Brad when he was a teenager?”
Chris shifted in his seat. He exchanged a glance with Fergus who quickly changed the subject.
“You’ll let us know what you find out in Nimbin?” he said to Dusty. I got the distinct impression he was deliberately trying to shift the focus away from Brad.
Dusty nodded and took a sip of her gin and tonic before broaching the subject of Perry Doran. “I understand Marcia made a generous settlement on her second husband when they divorced.”
Fergus’s lip curled in a sneer.
“She wasn’t given much choice,” he said. “Doran made things very difficult for Mum in the end. He said he wouldn’t leave without a fight and she’d better make it worth his while or he might not go at all.”
“That man was diabolical,” said Lucy. “Mum had already given him money to set up his restaurant. Given it to him; not loaned it. He had enough money to employ a top chef. All he had to do was swan around and play the grand host. Then he had the cheek to squeeze her for another million dollars.”
“A million dollars?”
“Can you believe it?” said Lucy. “That’s what he demanded at first. Mum ended up giving him eight hundred thousand.”
“Did she have to give him anything?” I asked. “Did he bring money into the marriage?”
“Hah!” interjected Fergus. “Of course not. He only married Mum for her money. That was as plain as day. He thought he’d be able to get his hands on all her money. At least Mum wised up before that happened.” He wiped beer froth from his lips. “Under the divorce settlement laws in this country,” he went on to explain, I assume for my benefit, “that scoundrel could have ended up with a lot more of Mum’s money. Giving him a lump sum payout was the only way to get rid of him.”
“That obnoxious gold digger is the least of our worries,” said Chris. “We have to do something to help Monique, to get her released.”
“The best way to get her released,” said Dusty, pausing for effect, “is for the real killer to be found.”
I’m sure Dusty had everyone in her sights when she said this in order to gauge their reaction. I noticed only Fergus. He swallowed hard and averted his eyes. Was he concerned about what Dusty might find out?
We were on our way out when Dusty turned and directed a question at Chris, taking him off guard.
“Where were you on the evening before Marcia disappeared?”
Chris looked at her with his mouth half open and a confused expression on his face. There was a split second of heavy silence as we all waited for Chris to answer.
Finally, he shook his head as if to clear the confusion and said, “I was at home with Mon as we’ve already told you.”
“Were you there when Marcia drove past in her car?”
“Yes. At least…” Chris ran his hand through his hair and down to the back of his neck, grabbing his rat-tail and pulling it forward. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t mention it the other day.” He looked bashful. “I didn’t think it was relevant.”
Dusty had a gleam of triumph in her eyes. “I’m listening,” she said. Suspicion glinted in Fergus’s eyes.
“Funny thing,” Chris said, clearing his throat. “Just as Marcia’s car approached, I suddenly remembered something urgent. You know how things can come into your mind out of the blue when you’re relaxed?” Dusty nodded but remained unsmiling. “That’s what happened to me. I saw Marcia’s car coming, nudged Monique to alert her and pointed to the car. It was precisely at that moment that I remembered I had to go and set the burglar alarm at the office. My hand just sort of froze in mid air. You know how it is.”
“You mean you forgot to set the alarm when you l
eft earlier in the day?” I asked.
Because I had judged him to be an organised and meticulous sort of person, I was surprised at this oversight.
“No,” said Chris, one hand on his rat-tail. “I’d left the office early that afternoon and none of the staff on duty that day had the combination to set the alarm. I’m the only person, apart from my senior manager who was away, that knows the combination. Anyway, I told the staff to simply lock up when they left and I’d call in later to set the alarm. That’s all there is to it. Nothing sinister. And again, I apologise for not mentioning it before.”
Chapter 24
“Nice of Brad to give us an excuse to visit the alternative capital of Australia,” said Dusty.
“Alternative capital?”
We were on our way to Nimbin with Dusty behind the wheel.
“Alternative. You know, not conventional.” She glanced across at me and tilted her head slightly to one side. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Nimbin?”
I had obviously failed an Australian geography lesson.
“The name rings a bell,” I said. “But I can’t remember anything about it.”
“Think psychedelic. Think hippies. Think dreadlocks. That’s Nimbin. If it’s alternative, you’ll find it in Nimbin. People live in communes and communities. Population: five hundred or thereabouts. They grow their own food, build their own houses and use energy from the sun, the wind and the water. They even have their own alternative currency.”
We had left Byron Bay behind and were now on the open road. Dusty pressed her foot on the accelerator.
“Let’s see what she can do,” she said with a mischievous grin.
The old car had enough modifications to allow her to zip up to the speed limit with ease. The speedometer showed only miles, but Dusty had pasted on tiny labels showing conversions in kilometres starting from 40mph and all the way up to 100mph which converted to 160kmph. I hadn’t thought about it before but now I wondered why she needed to know the conversion for 100mph. I hoped I wasn’t risking my life as the passenger of a wannabe racing car driver.
“Nimbin sounds like some sort of social experiment,” I said, keeping one eye on the speedometer.
“I suppose it is in a way but they’ve been ‘experimenting’ for over forty years now. People who live there are tolerant, peace loving and relaxed about everything – I mean everything. Lots of artists and musicians live there.”
“If it’s all communes and communities, how is it that Brad is able to buy a property there?”
The red needle on the speedometer was rising. My foot pressed an imaginary brake.
“It’s not all communes. There’s still opportunity for private ownership – pretty expensive though. City people looking for a tree change have bought up in the area forcing the prices up.”
“Right. Tree change? So Nimbin isn’t a coastal town?”
Dusty shook her head. She was wearing her hair loose today. I liked the way the curls sitting on her shoulders bounced with the movement of her head.
“No beaches,” she said. “Hills and rainforests.”
“How far from Byron is it?”
“Seventy kilometres west; about an hour away.”
I glanced pointedly at the speedometer.
“Maybe less than an hour,” said Dusty with a grin.
Although the scenery on the drive to the so-called alternative capital of Australia flashed by fairly quickly, I saw enough to describe it as green. Only a few small villages interrupted the natural lush vegetation.
Green changed to a kaleidoscope of colour on arrival in Nimbin. Tapestries, sarongs and colourful shirts flapped in the breeze while bright orange and yellow rubbish bins looked too attractive to use. Music from street buskers added to the upbeat atmosphere. The shop fronts were painted in bright artwork; many of them had spectacular murals as part of the shop signage. The names of the shops, such as Bring-a-bong and Hemp Embassy, conjured up some interesting images. Hemp seemed a popular word. Hemp Cafe provided coffee and cake with the firm assurance that the cakes contained no additives. Many parking spaces were occupied by Kombi vans; some simply painted in bright colours and others adorned with complex murals. Some of them looked like they’d arrived in Nimbin with the hippies in the early nineteen seventies. Dusty’s FJ Holden attracted friendly curiosity. Although it was an unusual sight (the 1955 iconic car is rarely seen on the road), it probably would have attracted more interest and stirred excitement had it been an early model Kombi van.
Dusty pointed to the hills in the distance. “Lots of illegal green plants growing up there.”
“Marijuana?”
“Spot on. I omitted to tell you Nimbin is also known as the marijuana capital of Australia.”
“Right. So, might this be where the Byron Bay smokers get their stash from?”
“Might be. Want to try some?”
I shook my head. “Been there. Done that.”
“Ah. Well, I haven’t.”
“Now’s your chance.”
Dusty screwed up her face in an expression of distaste. “I don’t want anything to impair the function of my brain,” she said. “I rely on it for a living.”
Along Nimbin’s main street, people meandered at a leisurely pace or remained stationary to contemplate the pavement. The heads of most of the men were completely overgrown with wild dreadlocks. Long beards and bushy moustaches obscured their faces. Most of the women wore their hair long too, but they were not the blonde tresses often seen in Byron. These were flowing manes in purple, green, blue and orange. All these colourful women were smiling. So was everyone else we passed in the street.
My first thought was of a community with a benign presence; a place where anyone would feel relaxed. Then I realised some people, perhaps people like Fergus, might be threatened by a lifestyle that lacked structure and restraints. Brad, I thought, was one who would feel comfortable in this community.
It didn’t take long for us to find people who knew Brad. We were informed that he rarely came into the township although several people suggested he often spent time at his Nimbin residence.
“He just goes straight there and pretty much stays there until he heads back to Byron,” said one woman who gave every appearance of being one of the original hippies of Nimbin. We came across her seated on a bench gazing reflectively at a veranda post that had been painted with broad stripes of red, yellow and green. She was dressed in various items of lavender coloured clothing and festooned with several layers of beads. Painted purple flowers glittered across her forehead and long white hair framed her face.
“Does he stay there on his own?” asked Dusty.
“Couldn’t say.”
The furrow in her brow deepened and she gave Dusty a piercing look. This was a woman who would have no hesitation in telling you exactly what she thought.
“Woman or man?” asked Dusty, apparently not intimidated by the gaze.
“None of my business.” The purple flowers wrinkled.
Dusty held her hands up in surrender. “None of mine either. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Just chill. Enjoy Nimbin.”
She contemplated the veranda post once more, quickly slipping into a trance-like state. We left her to enjoy her daydreams.
“You think Brad spends time here with someone?” I said to Dusty as we drove to the address we had for Brad’s property.
“Definitely. But he seems to be keeping his friend a secret. I wonder what it is about him or her that he doesn’t want others to know about.”
The obvious answer to that, given the rumours about Brad’s preference for male company, was probably not what Dusty wanted to hear so I opted for a different scenario.
“Maybe he has a wife and kids he’s been hiding for years.”
Dusty nodded slowly. “Interesting thought. But why keep her hidden?”
“Maybe she doesn’t come up to the family’s expectations.”
“A fellow artist with no university de
gree and no fashion sense, you mean? You could be right. On the other hand, I doubt that would be a strong enough reason for Brad to keep her secret, especially if they have children. I suspect he’d take pleasure in letting his family see that he was wallowing in happy domesticity.”
Earlier, I had given Dusty a report on Brad’s ex-fiancé. Her name was Grace Milton – a stunner with long blonde hair and even longer legs. According to an article about them that had appeared in the local paper at the time, they were both eighteen when they became engaged. They looked very happy together in their engagement photo. I’d been able to track Grace to Melbourne. At least, that’s where she was in 1997. Her trail went cold after that. I would need to do more cyber digging to find her current whereabouts.
“At least we know nothing sinister happened to her when she was in Byron,” Dusty had said. “But I’d like to know what happened between her and Brad.”
That was one of the questions she was keen to put to Brad when we found him. We had to drive a short distance out of the town to get to his property.
“This old car handles well, doesn’t she?” said Dusty, patting the dashboard affectionately.
“Not bad for an old lady,” I said.
“Funny you should say that. I was just thinking she could do with a face-lift.”
“A face-lift?”
“Yep. I could get her re-sprayed in a lovely bright colour. This red on the seats is great but her body’s a bit dull, don’t you think?”
Dusty’s car was an old-fashioned soft blue. When I first saw it, I had thought it much too sedate for its vivacious owner.
“Are you thinking of having her done in a psychedelic mural?”
Dusty grinned. “Not a bad idea. But the shock might be too much for her. I was thinking of turquoise.”
That shouldn’t have surprised me. Dusty had a particular affection for turquoise and always wore something of that colour. Today she was wearing long turquoise earrings. She once told me it was her mother’s favourite colour and I concluded that wearing turquoise was her way of honouring her lost mother.
“Right. Turquoise,” I said, nodding my understanding. “But changing the colour of her body would reduce her authenticity. That doesn’t bother you?”
A Devious Mind Page 15
