Do Not Go Alone (A Posthumous Mystery)

by C. A. Larmer

  I think it’s time.

  Eventually, slowly, my mum’s door creaks open. Followed a beat later by my dad’s. I see one leg, then another, then two more. I see them shuffle onto the sidewalk and reach for each other. I see them take a deep breath before turning to stare up at the front door, their eyes wary, as if approaching a haunted house. Which I guess, if you think about it, it is.

  I wonder, too, if they intend to knock, but I never get to find out. The door has swung open, and Detective Ruth stands there, a grim look on her face.

  She beckons them in as though she’s the butler, then shakes both their hands and leads them down the hallway, away from the office where my blood is still splattered and towards the kitchen, where I can hear the kettle boiling.

  The sound seems too parochial, considering the circumstances.

  My parents follow Ruth, as though strangers in their own home. Has my death ruined everything now? Has it turned our home back into a house, albeit a creepy one, one that not even slick rendering or lush vines can combat?

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Ruth says, pointing them into their own kitchen chairs.

  They blink at her. My mother nods. They dutifully sit down.

  “Kelly will make us a cup of tea.” She flashes a glance at her sidekick, who doesn’t exactly look thrilled by this. He thinks the task is below him and is wondering why Craig can’t do it. “Do you mind my asking you a few questions now? Or would you rather—”

  “Now,” my mother says loudly. Then more softly she adds, “Now is fine.”

  Ruth nods and takes the chair across from them, placing her hands prayer-like on the table. She breathes in, waits a few seconds, then exhales.

  “Can you tell me when you last saw your daughter?”

  “Two days ago,” starts Dad, but Mum interrupts.

  “It was Thursday, just before eleven. We had packed the car for the drive. She was in my sewing room, reading a magazine. We both went in to say goodbye.”

  “She didn’t come out to see you off?”

  My mother stares at her, frowning. “She… no. No she didn’t.”

  “And what state of mind was she in? Could you tell?”

  “She was fine.” This is Dad, and he is determined to speak. He is determined to let this woman know that I was in perfectly good spirits, thanks very much for asking.

  And yet even I am having trouble believing that.

  I was holed up inside at eleven a.m. on a weekday, for goodness’ sake. I couldn’t even find the enthusiasm to see my parents off. Not so fine perhaps.

  “She hasn’t been great,” says Mum, ignoring his outburst. No, it is because of his outburst. She is addressing this to him, and he is glaring at the tabletop like he finds the cheap pine offensive. “She had to leave her job, you see, and she really loved that job. And she broke up with Roco—”

  “He’s a ratbag!”

  My mother waits a beat. “They broke up amicably, David.” She smiles pointedly at the detective. “As I told you on the phone, she was struggling with it all. She was not great.”

  My father closes his eyes as though that will somehow block out what she is saying.

  “She was depressed?” Ruth asks, and Mum’s eyes flicker with impatience.

  “Wouldn’t you be?” Now she sounds defensive.

  Ruth nods, but she doesn’t look convinced. Perhaps she doesn’t love her job as much as I did. Perhaps she doesn’t have a Roco in her life.

  “Have either of you ever met or had any interactions with a man named Vijay Singh. Dr Vijay Singh.”

  They both stare at her, baffled by the change of tack.

  Eventually Mum says, “No. Why? Who is he?”

  “He attended your daughter’s party, Mrs May. That’s all I can say at this stage of the investigation.”

  I expect her to object to that, to demand some answers, but she drops it immediately and just smiles at Kelly as he hands her a teacup.

  “Milk? Sugar?” he asks, and Mum goes to get up, but he waves her back down. “I’m sure I can manage.”

  Mum smiles again, grateful, then she turns her eyes back to Ruth and her face seems to fall into itself. Her shoulders drop. She is no longer smiling.

  “Do you know…” She falters, closes her own eyes for a moment, then opens them and says more assuredly, “Can you tell me what happened, please?”

  Ruth looks puzzled by the question and waits as Kelly places milk and sugar on the table and then hands my father his cup.

  “Your daughter died from a fatal gunshot to the head, Mrs May. I did explain that over the phone.”

  “Yes, yes.” Mum sounds impatient again. This is not what she’s asking. “I just want to know, do you know for a fact that she…?”

  Mum can’t quite bring herself to say it, and I see Dad shrink into himself and reach for his cup. He wishes it was whisky.

  Ruth says gently, “We can’t rule out suicide, Mrs May, not at this stage. But we are keeping an open mind. We’re looking at all avenues.”

  “All avenues?” This is Dad now, glancing up from his brew. He looks buoyed suddenly.

  “It’s early days, Mr May, but we have found some evidence that others may be involved.”

  “This man you mention? This doctor?”

  “Perhaps.” Yet for some reason she doesn’t look convinced. “I need to ask about the gun.”

  Dad’s shoulders fall again, his gaze dropping back to his cup while Mum’s eyes slide his way. Does she blame him, I wonder?

  Ruth says, “You stored the gun on two hooks in your office, is that correct Mr May?”

  He swallows. “Yes, but… but it was an old piece of junk. I didn’t even know it still worked.”

  “Why wouldn’t it work, David?” says Mum, her voice rising in pitch.

  Yep, definitely blames Dad.

  “Because it’s a million years old, Mandy,” he says through clenched teeth. “It wasn’t even loaded. How was I to know?”

  “Because it’s a gun, David, an actual working gun. Not something you found at Toys R Us. You understand that, right?”

  Ruth holds a placatory palm up. She needs to get this back on track, she needs to keep this couple calm; they’re no use to her if they’re arguing. “And you say it wasn’t loaded, Mr May? Where were the bullets stored?”

  Dad looks from Mum to her, his frown easing. “In one of the drawers in my desk, the bottom one, right at the back, I can assure you of that. I never showed anyone. I certainly never showed Maisie.”

  Ruth nods. She emits a sigh. “I know this is confronting, but I need you to take a look in your office for me, Mr May. I need to ascertain if anything has been disturbed, if anything is missing.”

  He looks confused again, but Mum has rallied and is already on her feet.

  “Good,” she says. “Of course.” Then, noticing Dad still sitting there hunched over his cup, she almost snaps, “Come on then, David. This is no time for tea. Let’s face the music, shall we?”

  Wow, she really does blame Dad, doesn’t she? The incrimination in her voice is agonising to hear, yet I wonder if it’s the only thing keeping her from falling apart. Blame can be quite motivating, almost energising when you think about it.

  In contrast, guilt is clearly crippling, and I watch as Dad pushes his cup away and struggles to his feet. He suddenly looks all of his seventy-four years. Louise goes to help him, but he shakes her away, then follows Ruth down the hallway towards ground zero.

  At the office doorway, Ruth stops and says, “No further, please.”

  But Dad is not listening. The walk has reenergised him, and he is already pushing past her and inside. Ruth goes to grab his arm, but it is too late. He is staring at the carpet to the side of his desk. He is staring at the remnants of me, the smattering of blood I left behind. He stiffens, he chokes, he drops to his knees and he breaks into gulping sobs.

  And now I am sobbing right beside him.

  I wish I could reach out. I wish I could hug him, but I
’m also surprised because I thought Dad would be the stoic, dry-eyed one and Mum would be the one who turned to jelly. I mean, she was always good in a crisis, but she was my mother! How can she be so together? How can she still be upright?

  I guess it all comes back to that gun.

  After a few agonising minutes, Mum’s demeanour softens and I am relieved to see her step towards Dad, lean down a little, and gently start patting his back, like she’s soothing a naughty child. Ruth shoots worried glances between them, but she’s not thinking about the warring couple. She’s thinking they mustn’t go any further. She must preserve the integrity of the crime scene.

  Oh my baby girl, I can hear Dad think now, and it sets me off again. If only you hadn’t gone on that bloody date.

  I do a double take and swallow back my sob. Sorry, what?

  If only that night had never happened.

  Hang on, is he talking about my date with Hottie Hodder? Is that what’s upsetting him? Not the fact that he brought a gun into our home or hung it on the wall or left the bullets lying around for any nutter to uncover but the fact that I went to an Italian restaurant one chilly winter’s night with Jonas?

  What does a harmless date with a good-looking guy have to do with my murder?

  Now I feel more muddled up than ever.

  Chapter 19

  As Mum continues to soothe Dad, I try to get my head straight. I try to work out why my father’s first thought when he saw that blood was of Jonas. As was Tessa’s, now that I think about it.

  Perhaps I haven’t looked at Jonas closely enough. He was the first to find my body, and the way Roco and Tessa were just talking, well, I have to ask: Is there more to Jonas than meets the eye? Does he have something to do with this?

  I try to think back…

  Jonas wasn’t nicknamed Hottie Hodder for nothing. He was the best looking guy in my social circle, a work friend of Tessa’s and, at least until recently, Roco’s best mate. When it comes to friendship, Roco is a serial monogamist, and his latest bromance was with Jonas, a man who could down a schooner of beer in seconds, banter about football for hours and always be relied upon for a good time. He’s what Aussie guys call a “top bloke.”

  To the women, however, it was all about the body. Jonas wasn’t tall and dark so much as fit and blond—Ryan Gosling and Bradley Cooper rolled into one with the six-pack to match. Yet when he asked me out on a date that winter, I had to smile and let him down.

  “You know Tessa’s got a major crush on you, right?”

  He smiled back. He shrugged nonchalantly. He said, “So? What’s that got to do with us?”

  “She’s my friend, Jonas. She’s your friend too. It’s how we met! I couldn’t do that to her.”

  “That’s the problem, yeah? Tessa has monopolised us both.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She’s always around. Like a bad smell. This has got nothing to do with Tessa. I just want to get to know you better. Get some quality time with the amazing Ms May.”

  I was flattered. I can’t say I wasn’t, but I was also surprised, and I asked him why he assumed I was so amazing.

  “You’re just so… together.” I looked at him, puzzled, and he laughed. “I mean, you’re beautiful and you have a great job and friends, and well, you just have your shit together, that’s all. Unlike most of the chicks around here. Unlike bloody Tessa.” He laughed again. “You’re the whole package, Maisie. Tessa’s not. Why should you be punished because your best mate has a crush that’s going nowhere?”

  Now it was my turn to laugh. “Oh, I see. So not going out with you would be a form of punishment, is that what you’re saying?”

  He smiled his silky smile. “I guess you’ll have to accept my invitation and find out for yourself.”

  And still I resisted. “I’m just not sure I can do it to Tess.”

  “Why not?” His smile had vanished. “She’d do it to you.”

  “No she wouldn’t,” I snapped back. I knew that for a fact. Or at least I thought I did.

  Then he smiled at me again. It was the full Hollywood throttle—the gleaming white teeth, the tilt of the head, the slight squint of the eyes. “It’s just dinner, Maisie. I’m not asking you to get married.”

  He made a good point.

  “I didn’t think you even liked Jonas,” said Tessa when I fessed up later that day. I had to tell her—of course I did—but I cushioned the blow by explaining that it was just a quick pizza down at Bill and Tony’s Ristorante.

  “Nothing’s going to happen, Tess. He’ll work out I’m dull as dishwater and quickly lose interest.”

  She gave me a strange look then. “You’re worried about me,” she said.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “I’m not into him anymore, is that what you think?” She laughed. She sounded genuine. Then her laughter stopped. “Just be careful there, okay? He’s not as hot as he seems.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing. Now I’m just being a bitch. Go out, have fun, be free!”

  I think about her comments now. Was that why she decided Roco was fair game? Because, in girlfriend land at least, I’d already crossed the line? I had lost her loyalty.

  But I digress. I don’t think it’s the date with Jonas that Dad is referring to now. I know he was happy to see me step out of my comfort zone and “let my hair down.” I’d been single for some time and a bit down in the dumps. No, I think Dad is referring to the end of that date, the bit where it all went to hell in a handbasket.

  Despite my promises to Tessa, something did happen that night, something pretty momentous, although the date itself was relatively benign.

  We talked, we flirted a little, we even squabbled at one point—he thought the #MeToo movement was pathetic; I thought it was a powerful concept. But we put our differences aside when the food arrived. We were in too good a mood to argue.

  We shared a delicious pumpkin-and-goat-cheese pizza, Jonas and I, washed down with plenty of good Shiraz. So much wine, in fact, that few people were surprised when I went hurtling down the restaurant stairs on my way out and broke my leg.

  Few people that is, except Jonas. He was horrified.

  The day after I was released from hospital, my leg in a cast, my head pounding like a jackhammer—I guess I must have hit the wall on the way down, it all happened so fast—he backed right off. Suddenly he didn’t want to upset Tessa. They were colleagues; it could prove uncomfortable at work.

  I saw Jonas after that from time to time—hanging out with the gang, at parties, a few hours ago, in fact—and he was always friendly enough, but he could never quite look me in the eye, at least not for very long. It was though I had ruined the mirage.

  I was the silly little drunk who fell flat on her face. The amazing Ms May had been vanquished.

  Was that when I lost all sense of control? Did my self-confidence shatter right along with my right tibia? And does Dad blame Jonas for that? More importantly, did I confront Jonas about it all last night? Did I demand a belated apology for his rejection? And was murder the result? Or did Tessa finally confront me? Demand to know how I could date the man she liked? Is that why I’m dead?

  Oh it’s all so damn silly, so trivial, in fact.

  So why did Dad bring it up? Why was that the first thing he thought of when he saw all that blood?

  “Please take a moment, Mr May,” Ruth is saying, her voice low, her tone patient. But the truth is she doesn’t want him to take long. She has questions, a dozen questions, and she wants to get on with it. It’s been a very long night. Hell, the morning is practically upon us.

  Dad is shaking the tears off, struggling back to his feet, when he lifts a weather-beaten finger and says, “What’s my chair doing over there?”

  Good question! Finally they’re thinking outside the box. Someone clearly pushed it over there so they could reach the gun. Yes, let’s focus on that.

  “You didn’t put it there?” Ruth asks.

&nbs
p; “Of course I bloody didn’t! It’s always behind my desk.” His guilt is making him rude and defensive again.

  “And the gun was on the wall, just above the chair? Resting in that case?”

  Ruth knows the answer to that, so why bother asking? It’s almost as though she’s on Mum’s side and is rubbing his face in it.

  Dad nods, chokes, hangs his head again. It makes my heart break. Mum is frowning now, but she is not thinking along the same lines as Ruth. She’s now so outside the box she’s in fresh territory.

  “But the hooks aren’t very high, are they?” Mum says. “Why would you need the chair to get to the gun?”

  And before any of us can even compute that question, she has another more intriguing one. “And why is the photo like that?”

  We all follow her eyes to the filing cabinet to the side of Dad’s desk where there’s a silver picture frame sitting beside a dusty nautilus shell. The frame is facing the wall so we can’t see what it contains.

  For a moment my memory fails me, and I can’t quite remember the contents. Was it their wedding photo? A certificate of some sort? Then it comes to me with a whoosh. That’s right! It’s a happy snap taken on the last holiday we ever had as a family. I already told you about that. It was my final year of school, the setting an island in Vanuatu. We were all there, including Jan and at least one of her kids. We were standing on a sundrenched beach, Mum and Dad grinning happily, Peter looking stoned, Paul caught midblink, one arm slung around Jan who is half-cut from the picture, as though even the photographer didn’t feel she quite belonged.

  And me? I’m right in the middle of the fold, my smile as wide as Mum’s, my arms spread out as if to say “Here we are, world, aren’t we terrific!”

  It’s my favourite photo, so why is it facing away? Mum attempts to retrieve it, but Ruth has a hand up.

  “Allow me.”

  She steps carefully across the perimeter of the office, pulling a latex glove on as she does so. When she reaches the frame, she stops and turns back.