I knelt down beside Dusty.
“I’ll call an ambulance,” said Lucy, reaching for her mobile phone.
“No. It’s all right.” Dusty sat up. “I didn’t really faint; I just wanted him to let go.”
I helped her over to a sofa and Lucy brought her a shot of brandy.
When we left, Penelope was trying to comfort an inconsolable Summer. Toby had been taken away by the police. Fergus had gone with them. Chris had left in a hurry when the police arrested Toby; no doubt on his way to see Monique.
Brad and Lucy had their heads together and their arms around each other. It was a family in crisis. Thankfully, Coco was still in the roof room.
Chapter 39
Almost a week had passed and Dusty and I were at one of our favourite eating places by the beach. We’d arranged to meet Brad for lunch. I had some news for him which I hadn’t yet had a chance to pass on.
On the way to Byron Beach Cafe, we’d taken a slight detour to Pierre’s Place. Dusty wanted to deliver the promised autographed copy of one of her books to the waiter, Wayne. I think we were both pleased that Perry was not there at the time. Wayne, clearly touched at receiving the gift, was both effusive and deferential.
He walked with us along the short path that led from the restaurant door to the public footpath, pausing where two small trees acted as gate posts and marked the end of the restaurant premises.
“These are bush tucker trees,” he said, fingering the leaves as we brushed against the lush green foliage.
Dusty looked at me. “Do you know what bush tucker is?”
I’d heard some of the locals use the term during my visit to the Northern Territory so was able to answer in the affirmative. “It’s food native to Australia as used by the Aboriginal people.”
“That’s right,” said Wayne. “This is one of the native myrtles. You can use the crushed leaves and oil with all kinds of food: meat, fish, ice cream, desserts, tea – anything you like, really.” He broke off a leaf, crushed it and handed it to Dusty. “You can even use it in cocktails.”
When Dusty inhaled the scent of the leaves, a broad smile spread across her face. She handed the leaves to me and suggested I ‘take a whiff’. I did as instructed. I thought it resembled aniseed. Dusty’s eyes met mine. She was clearly expecting the scent of the leaf to provide me with some sort of enlightenment, but I struggled to understand what it was.
“Hold it further away from your nose so that the scent is not so strong,” she said.
I obeyed. Then understanding dawned. Dusty saw it in my eyes.
“Thank you, Wayne,” she said. A knowing look passed between them.
“Aniseed myrtle,” he said, before he turned and retreated into the restaurant.
“We need never tell anyone how we found out the secret ingredient in Pierre’s espresso martinis. That will be our secret,” Dusty said as we walked away. A mischievous look came into her eyes when she continued. “On the other hand, I’m not so sure Pierre’s secret recipe will remain a secret.”
It was probably a fitting punishment for Perry Doran. He had made the mistake of trying to lead Dusty Kent along a false trail.
When Brad arrived at the cafe, I could see by the dark shadows under his eyes that the family troubles had affected him deeply. Still, he managed to remain casually winsome.
“Monique has been released,” he said, as he sank into a chair at our table. “Much to Chris’s delight,” he added with a smile.
“Fergus must be shattered,” I said.
Fergus’s attempted act of sacrifice to save his son had endeared him to me, and to Dusty I think.
“He is,” said Brad with a nod. “He adores his kids. Now he has to cope with the knowledge that his son committed one of the worst crimes imaginable.”
“Yes,” said Dusty. “And yet he was willing to go to prison to protect Toby.”
A charming young woman arrived to take our order.
“Fergus might be a bit of a stuffed-shirt,” said Brad when she had retreated, “but you can’t fault him for loyalty.” He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “The only way he can come to terms with what Toby did is to think of him as being sick – mentally disturbed.”
“Do you agree?” I asked.
“Maybe. Or maybe Toby’s just evil. After all, he did his best to create the impression that poor old Fergus was the murderer.”
“He wanted his father to persuade Marcia to buy him the Porsche,” said Dusty. “Because Fergus didn’t take his side, his plan was for his father to be convicted of Marcia’s murder. To him, it probably seemed like poetic justice. I think that makes him evil.”
“Thank goodness Summer is not tarred with the same brush. Speaking of which…” Brad pointed toward the door.
Summer and Daniel had just walked in and were scanning the room. They waved as they picked us out from the other diners. When they reached our table, Brad welcomed them both warmly and Dusty invited them to join us for lunch. Summer shook her head and looked to Daniel for confirmation.
“Thank you,” said Daniel, “but we’re on our way to meet with the band.”
Although happiness glowed on Summer’s face, the strain of the past few days showed in her eyes.
“I just called in to say sorry,” she said, looking at Dusty. “For what Toby did to you. He almost killed you. I’m so sorry.”
“Summer,” said Dusty. “You must never apologise for your brother’s actions. What he has done is no reflection on you. None at all. You’re your own person and you are the only person you need to take responsibility for.” Dusty jumped up from her chair and gave Summer a quick hug. “You mustn’t let any of this stop you from following your dream.”
“Hear! Hear!” said Brad and I together.
“That’s just what we’re going to talk with the band about,” said Daniel, putting his arm around Summer’s waist. “We want to map out a plan for the future, be a bit more serious about where we’re headed and how to promote our sensational lead singer.”
A blush crept up to Summer’s cheeks as she and Daniel exchanged an affectionate look. I enjoyed a moment of smug satisfaction knowing that I had played a part in facilitating their romance.
Lunch arrived in all its delicious glory just as Summer and Daniel left. For the next few minutes the three of us enjoyed the meal, the sea breeze and the views.
Then Dusty glanced at me, signalling that it was time to give Brad the information I’d found.
“Brad,” I began.
That’s when I realised the weight of the responsibility of imparting such knowledge. Up to this moment, I had assumed that what I had to tell Brad would be good news, but in a sudden insight I now realised that it could be received as an unwelcome intrusion into his life. Brad was looking expectantly over his coffee cup at me. I proceeded cautiously.
“During the course of our investigation I attempted to locate someone from your past.”
Brad looked perplexed.
“Your ex fiancé, Grace,” I said.
“Oh, Grace.” Brad’s face softened. “Crikey, that was a long time ago. We were so young. Did you find her?”
“I did find her. She’s living in Melbourne.”
“I hope she’s happy,” said Brad.
“She is happy. She’s married and has a son; a fine young man. In fact, a few years ago he was honoured for his work for environmental causes. He was named Young Australian of the Year.”
“There’s some irony in that,” said Brad. “Mum was a keen environmentalist. She might have even met him – ignorant of the fact that he was Grace’s son.”
“Irony because your mother didn’t approve of Grace. Is that what you mean?”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” said Brad with a derisive smile.
“Nevertheless,” I said, “your mother wasn’t the cause of Grace leaving Byron.”
Brad raised his eyebrows. Now I had to deliver the news I was apprehensive about.
“She left because she foun
d out she was carrying your child,” I said.
Brad’s eyes widened. He shook his head slowly in disbelief. “A child. That doesn’t make sense. I would’ve been happy about that. There was no need for her to leave.”
“She’ll fill you in on the details, if you choose to contact her.”
Grace had told me in her email that when she’d found out she was pregnant, she saw herself being imprisoned in the Nixon family; a family she didn’t fit into. In her youthful impulsiveness, she decided that making a clean break before Brad knew about the baby would be the best thing for everyone. Years later, she realised she had been wrong and that her actions had been unfair to Brad. By then it was too late; she already had a new life.
“What happened to the child?” asked Brad apprehensively. He was clearly expecting me to tell him Grace had had an abortion.
“She kept him. When she married, her husband adopted him.”
“You mean… he’s the environmentalist you mentioned earlier?”
“Yes. Your son, James Bradley Morton, was Young Australian of the Year.”
Brad slapped his hands down on the table causing the glasses to wobble and the cutlery to jangle.
“My son!” he exclaimed. “An award winning environmentalist! My son! My god!” He reached across the table and shook my hand vigorously. “That’s the best news I’ve had in a long time.” He leant back in his chair, grinning. “My son.”
Dusty raised her glass, which still held some fresh mango juice.
“Congratulations!” she said. We all clinked glasses.
I explained to Brad that Grace and her husband would welcome communication from him. They both believed it would be good for their son to know his biological father.
“It seems like both Pen and I have family matters to sort out,” he said, as I texted him Grace’s contact details. “At present, my priority has to be Pen. She needs my support. So does Fergus.”
“That must be a difficult situation for you,” said Dusty. “You and Penelope.”
“It is what it is.” Brad folded his table napkin and dropped it on his empty plate. “I know it’s tough on Fergus, especially now, but there’s not much I can do about that.”
“Bound to raise a few eyebrows around Byron, as well,” said Dusty, giving Brad a knowing look.
“I gather you’re not referring to the fact that Pen is my sister-in-law,” said Brad with an impish smile. “You’ve heard the gossip that I’ve painstakingly cultivated over the years.”
“I thought you might have been the source of the rumours,” said Dusty.
Brad laughed. “Nothing much gets past Dusty Kent, does it? I just happen to have quite a few good friends who are gay, that’s all. It was a bit of fun having the family think I wasn’t interested in women. Turned out to be a very useful camouflage when Pen and I got together.”
He pushed his chair back, stood up and leant over to kiss Dusty lightly on the cheek causing a faint blush to rise there.
“I can’t thank you enough,” he said to me as we shook hands, “for tracking down my son. I’ll get in touch when things have calmed down here. When the time is right, I’ll be proud to meet him.” Brad left with a smile on his face and a spring in his step. Dusty looked after him and sighed.
“I couldn’t compete with Penelope,” she said.
“Yes, you could,” I said, although I didn’t actually say it out loud.
When the waiter came to clear our dishes, Dusty and I ordered another coffee. Having survived the ordeal of delivering potentially unpleasant news to Brad, I thought I might have the courage to talk to Dusty about my imminent departure from Australia. I hadn’t got very far in my stumbling explanation when Dusty interrupted me.
“I take it you’d like to remain in Australia?” she said.
“Of course I’d like to stay here. Who wouldn’t?”
“Consider it done.”
“Consider it done?”
Dusty grinned at my confusion. “I have a plan. I’ve spoken to my publisher about sponsoring you. That way you’d be able to stay for around four years as my assistant and even apply for permanent residency if you wanted to.”
I couldn’t believe my good luck. Although, I wasn’t sure my mother would see it in such a positive light. As far as she was concerned, Australia was too far away. For me, however, it was an opportunity too good to miss. Not just because of the country and the lifestyle but because it meant a continuing association with Dusty.
The only negative I could think of was that as long as I was working as Dusty’s assistant, she would make sure our relationship was kept purely professional. It would take more than my supposedly disarming smile and ‘Blarney Stone accent’, as she once called it, to get her to shift from that position. That was a challenge I’d have to work on. I gazed out at the blue sky and the rolling ocean and contemplated how good life was.
“I think I’m settling into Australia quite well,” I said. “Avoided crocodiles in the Northern Territory and here in Byron, avoided sharks, escaped from a bush-turkey and not even seen a Drop Bear.”
“You’ve done very well. I forgot to tell you there’s a repellent for Drop Bears. But it seems you didn’t need it anyway.”
“What sort of repellent?”
“Vegemite,” she said. “If you spread Vegemite behind your ears, it keeps Drop Bears away.”
I caught a hint of mischief in her eyes. It dawned on me that she was teasing me although whether it was about the Vegemite repellent or the Drop Bears or both, I wasn’t sure.
“You’ve been having a lend of me, haven’t you?” I said, borrowing one of her expressions. “Do Drop Bears even exist?”
Dusty placed a hand across her heart. “Would I lie to you?” she said indignantly. “Their scientific name is Thylarctos plummetus. Check it out on the Australian Museum website if you don’t believe me.”
“I will,” I said, still not totally convinced of her sincerity. “In the meantime, may I make a suggestion for our next case?”
“You may. But before you do that, I have a suggestion of my own. It’s about your language.”
“My language?” I wondered if I had used offensive words in my panic when I almost fell on top of her the day we were at the lighthouse.
“Jaysis,” she said. “Why don’t you just say ‘Jesus’ and be done with it.”
“Jesus? I couldn’t say that,” I said. “Not in that way.”
“Why not? After all, that’s what you really mean, isn’t it?”
“It would be disrespectful,” I explained.
Dusty rolled her eyes. “I think we need to Aussify you a bit. Especially now you’re going to be staying on. Why don’t you try a good Aussie word like ‘Crikey’?”
“Crikey? It doesn’t really have the same impact, does it?”
“Have it your way,” said Dusty, throwing her hands up. “Now tell me your suggestion.”
I explained that I had met a family in the Northern Territory who’d told me about a murder that had never been solved.
“Well, Sean O’Kelly, I’m sure you realise I have a long list of cold cases I’ve been invited to work on.”
“Right.” I tried to hide my disappointment.
“But,” continued Dusty as that familiar mischievous grin appeared on her face. “The bottom of my foot is itchy.” What was I supposed to say to that? “That means I’m going to take a long trip.”
“Darwin would be a long trip,” I said.
“It would,” she agreed. “Talking about feet, there’s something I really must do. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Enjoy your coffee.”
When Dusty returned, she was carrying a large bag, the sort of bag women carry their goods away from a retail store in. Her eyes were gleaming and she was grinning broadly.
“I bought myself a present,” she said. “I fell in love with these the first day I arrived in Byron and saw them in the shop window. I promised myself I’d buy them as soon as this case was resolved.” She opened t
he bag and brought out a pair of turquoise ankle boots. “These were hand-made in Africa. Feel how soft they are.”
She held them towards me and allowed me to run my hand over the soft leather. I noticed she was careful not to put the boots on the table, no doubt because of the superstition that placing new shoes on a table brings bad luck.
“They’ll match my bikini perfectly,” she said.
An image of Dusty in a turquoise bikini flashed into my mind. Misreading the expression on my face, she hastened to reassure me.
“It’s all right,” she said with a laugh. “I’m not planning on wearing the boots with the bikini. I just meant my bikini is almost the same colour as these boots.”
I wouldn’t have cared one iota if she wore the boots to the beach, just so long as I could walk by her side.
*
I have kept the promise I made in Murder in Murloo to record my next adventure with Dusty Kent and I will continue to record our adventures together using my own notes and Dusty’s files. You might also remember that I mentioned how I tried to use the sort of English grammar and punctuation that my English teacher from school, Mr Marsh, would approve of. At school, Mr Marsh had encouraged me to consider a writing career. I’d chosen IT because it offered better career prospects. Anyway, guess what? Apparently, Mr Marsh wasn’t as old as I thought he was because he’s still going strong. He read my ramblings in Murder in Murloo and wrote to tell me he approved of the grammar. He was silent on the issue of my hacking into cyber space.
About the Author
Brigid George grew up in a small Australian town called Orbost in the state of Victoria. She spent her childhood chasing snakes and lizards down hollow logs, playing Hansel and Gretel in the bush with her brothers, climbing trees, searching the local rubbish tip for books to read and generally behaving like a feral child. To avoid her boisterous brothers she often escaped into the hayshed with a book. Hours and hours of reading from an early age trained her for life as a writer. In primary school her teachers called her ‘the one with the Enid Blyton touch’. Her love of reading murder mysteries as an adult has now evolved into a love of writing them.
A Devious Mind Page 25
