Do Not Go Alone (A Posthumous Mystery)

by C. A. Larmer

  Now they look at her blankly.

  “Did either of you put it there, for example?”

  They shake their heads.

  “Is this where you normally stash extra cash? Perhaps you’re not into the usual hidey-holes like under the mattress or, I don’t know, a bank?”

  Again, they shake their heads.

  “Do either of you have any idea who might have put it there? There’s almost $780 in this bag. That’s not loose change, folks. That’s not a bit of coinage slipping down between the cushions. Would one of your children have put it there?”

  Again, the shaking of the heads. Mum looks completely lost, but she’s also lost her energy and can’t seem to fathom enough to enquire further, although she’s clearly curious. Dad looks like it’s starting to ring a bell, maybe, kind of. Perhaps.

  Ruth catches this and zeroes in on him. “Mr May? Talk to me.”

  He shrinks back. He shakes his head. It’s a safer response.

  Ruth groans with exasperation. She does not believe him, but she, too, is tired and is running out of time. She has a slippery suspect to interrogate back at headquarters not to mention fingerprints to check and toxicology results to demand…

  “Aherm.”

  This is Craig, standing at the kitchen door. He has his notepad in his hand, and he looks fit to bursting. He’s really loving this gig. I wonder if he’ll ask for a permanent transfer from Tanner’s team and if Ruth will accept.

  She whips her head around, offering him the same glare she gave Kelly when he interrupted her, but Craig’s getting braver. He holds firm, darting glances at his pad as if it’s the Holy Grail.

  Ruth groans even louder and turns back to my parents. “The SOCOs are finishing up now, Mr and Mrs May, and we’ll all be out of your hair very soon,” she begins, not surprised by the relief that washes across both their faces. “But don’t think we won’t be back. This isn’t over, folks.”

  “Can I see my daughter?” Mum asks, and again, it feels as though it’s only just occurred to her. “I need to see my baby.” Her voice cracks.

  This wipes the condescension from Ruth’s tone. “Of course, Mrs May. I’ll arrange that tomorrow.” She glances towards the window. “Later this morning, I mean.”

  Mum nods, a tear dripping from one eye.

  Ruth gives her a tight smile, then scoops the cash back up and leaves my parents sitting together in their kitchen. They’ve never looked more alone.

  Again, I want to reach down. I want to wrap them in a ghostly embrace, but Ruth is already motioning for Craig to join her in the living room, and I am keen to learn what it is he’s so confident about.

  Only when they reach the room, only when they know they’re out of earshot, does Ruth stop and turn to him, an eyebrow raised questioningly.

  “Vijay Singh couldn’t have done it, ma’am,” Craig says, his tone elevated.

  “And you know this, how?”

  “I questioned everybody earlier. I have their alibis. Dr Singh was with one of the other guests in the spare bedroom, you know, doing stuff.”

  “Doing stuff? What are you, twelve?”

  He blushes. “Having sexual relations, his words, not mine.” He glances down at his pad. “During the pivotal hour and a half, Mr Singh and a woman called Arabella Simpson were first at the pool, then in the kitchen, then in the guest bedroom, the one upstairs. Several witnesses have confirmed it. His presence is accounted for.”

  “They could be in it together,” she says, and he shrugs.

  “Mutual friends insist they only met each other last night.”

  She frowns, thinks about that and then winces. “And you’re only just telling me now? Now that we’ve hauled him down to headquarters and dragged his cranky solicitor out of bed!”

  “Sorry, ma’am, but I thought you’d want me to check, to be certain.”

  “And you are certain?”

  “Yes, I am. I just phoned the woman in question, Ms Simpson. She confirms that she only met Dr Singh this evening and was with him from about eleven until the victim was discovered around twelve fifteen. The pathologist says Maisie was probably shot between eleven thirty and midnight, so…” He lets her do the math. “She doesn’t sound happy, ma’am, this Arabella Simpson. In fact, she asked if you could pass a message along to Mr Singh.”

  “Really? And what message is that?”

  “She said to tell him to, um…” He blushes again. “To, er, go f-word himself.”

  Ruth stifles a smile, and I can’t help giggling. We both agree that sounds like the genuine sentiments of a woman who’s just been used and spat out, not an accomplice providing a fake alibi.

  “Sorry, ma’am, but I think he’s in the clear.”

  “Yeah,” she says, “more’s the pity.”

  And, again, I agree. The sleazy doctor was such a good suspect! So remote and detached from my life, I was happy to pin it on him. Now we’re back to square one.

  Now we’re back to my loved ones.

  Chapter 22

  The sun is just peeping up from behind Tessa’s house, lending it a rosy glow. It looks shiny and new. There’s a sparkle coming from one of the top windows, and the low lighting has muted the patchy paintwork. It seems as though someone’s just given it a bath and popped on some fresh lippie.

  Must be a trick of the light. That house hasn’t been spruced up since Mr McGee took off, and there’s nothing fresh about its contents.

  Three of them are now collapsed like ragdolls against each other on the couch. Una is at one end, her long legs crossed over on a mismatched pouf in front of her, her mouth agape, Tessa asleep at the other, chin in her bosom, and between them Roco, his head on Tessa’s lap, his legs across Una’s knees, snoring loudly.

  I never minded his snoring, not like other couples. I knew he couldn’t help it, just like I can’t help looking down on them fondly despite their secrecy, despite their lies.

  The others have left, and Mrs McGee is back in her own bed, sleeping soundly. It’s sad and all, but it’s clear from my friends’ proximity to each other that whatever Una has told them, whatever her secrets—my dad? Thailand? Her friendship with a suspected killer?—all is now forgiven.

  I am both relieved and insulted, but I let them be. I pull myself away and return to my house where I see the police have left as promised and my folks are still awake. I know it’s petulant of me, but I guess I’d feel betrayed if they were snoring happily.

  Nobody wants their death to send people to sleep.

  Mum and Dad are huddled under separate blankets in separate chairs in their own living room, clutching what looks like tumblers of whisky, their eyes still wide with the horror of it all, but the boys are nowhere to be seen. I assume Paul has returned to his own family, and as for Peter? God knows. Is he a black splotch again? Has he found another hotel room, another warm body to help him through?

  Then I hear a loud snore followed by a moan and a splutter, and I almost giggle. I feel like a little girl again, peeping in on her big brother. Peter’s under that duvet in the guest bedroom, his clothes strewn on the floor, an empty crystal tumbler on the bedside table. For the first time in ten years he has stayed over at my parents’ place. It’s a pity I had to die for that to happen.

  I wonder about this now.

  Why did Peter stay away so often? Why does he live his life as if from behind a shadow?

  “He can shag and snort and do whatever he likes at the InterContinental,” Paul had mumbled the last time he came to town, but I didn’t think that was it. I had a hunch there was something deeper going on.

  I wonder now if he knew about Dad and Una, if he’d caught Dad sleeping around with other women in the past. Was that what he was avoiding? Or is it something else entirely?

  “Could be gay?” Neal says, catching me by surprise, but I don’t bother to look around.

  He seems to be popping up more frequently now, and I’m slowly getting used to it.

  “He’s not gay.”

&n
bsp; “How do you know?”

  “He might not be married, but there’s always a girl on the scene.”

  “Ah, the classic gay beard! A ruse! Maybe that’s why he lives in London, so he can hide his true self.”

  Finally I turn to face him, my head cocked.

  “All right then,” he says, “if you say so. Pity though. He’s a hunk, that one.”

  “What do you want, Neal?”

  “Deseree asked me to come out, see if I can help speed things along.”

  “I thought I had all the time in the world. What happened to that?”

  “You do have time. But you don’t need it, honey. You just need to open your eyes and see.”

  “I am!” I snap back. “My eyes are so open I’m seeing shit that, quite frankly, I wish I’d never seen! I would have been very happy to head off to Forever without any of this, so you can tell Deseree to—”

  Diiing, ding, diiiiiiiing!

  A high-pitched bell breaks through my tantrum, and I look back down. I know that ringtone. I’d tune into it at a heavy metal concert. It’s my front doorbell. Ruth and Kelly are standing outside, finally acting like the intruders they are and not the owners of the place, startling my parents in the process.

  They both jump, and Dad manages to spill whisky all over his blanket.

  “Bugger it,” he says.

  Mum looks at the clock on the wall. It’s just after eight. How did that happen? She sighs heavily. “I’ll get it.”

  As she makes her way to the front of the house, her stoicism reminds me of something, of another time. She closes her eyes very briefly, then opens them again as she swings open the door, waving Ruth in without a word. She doesn’t ask what she wants. She doesn’t have to. She’s been waiting for their return.

  Kelly remains outside as Ruth and Mum walk back to the lounge room where Dad is now gathering dirty glasses and soggy paper plates and attempting to clean up. I had forgotten all about my party and am almost taken aback by the mess, which looks excessive in the harsh light of day. The empty champagne flutes and lurid-coloured cupcakes, some stabbed with cigarette butts, seem so out of place under the circumstances. Like a really lame joke.

  “Can I have a word with you both?” Ruth says, and Dad drops a beer bottle back into the potted plant where he found it.

  They sit down on the couch together now and wait.

  Ruth glances at Mum, shoots her a look I can’t read, before turning to Dad. “I’ve just spoken with my counterpart in customs, Mr May. We know all about your recent trip to Thailand,” she tells him.

  I think, Yes, yes, that’s old news, move it along!

  “We know who you were there with, and we know why you went.”

  Now Dad closes his eyes and hangs his head, and my heart crumbles all over again. Is this how my poor mother has to learn of his affair? Does Ruth really need to make it so brutal?

  Mum is staring at Ruth, but I can’t read her face. I can’t read her mind.

  Before the detective can say anything else, three things happen. Ruth gets a call on her phone and holds a finger up to excuse herself, my brother Paul enters the room, his car keys jangling, and Mum turns to Dad and says, “Say nothing.”

  Then she plasters a smile to her face, turns to Paul and says, “Cup of tea darling?”

  Chapter 23

  As the kettle begins the boiling process (gee it’s been getting a workout), Mum reaches for some loose-leaf tea and begins to make a pot, calling back to Paul.

  “You’re up early, sweetie.”

  He looks like he hasn’t even been to bed, and he wipes a hand across his advancing stubble.

  “Well, the little buggers are always up at the crack of dawn so…”

  He slumps onto a stool. I wish he wouldn’t do that. I wish he’d return to the living room and sit beside our shaking dad. Or at the very least start cleaning the mess up, because I know that it will be left to Mum, and I feel so guilty about that. And I’m not talking about the dirty wineglasses.

  Dad has somehow pulled himself together and enters the kitchen. He gives Paul’s shoulder a squeeze before dropping into the neighbouring stool.

  “So Pete’s still asleep, is he?” Paul mutters. “Well what a surprise. Typical.”

  “Don’t.”

  It’s a simple word, but it’s loaded with emotion. Both Dad and Paul look up at Mum with a start. She has her back to them, but we can all tell she is at breaking point.

  “Just today,” she says slowly, her voice low and firm, “can we just have peace, please? That’s all I ask.”

  Paul looks away, shamefaced, and I wonder about that. Did we fight all the time? Were we really that kind of family? That’s not what I recall or, at least, not entirely.

  I have a strong memory of giggling with my brothers, only recently in fact. I remember perching on my bed, Paul at the door, Peter by my side, the laptop in front of him as we snorted with laughter. We joked about dressing up and hitting nightclubs and getting “out of it” together.

  There was a lot of love and laughter between the fighting and the angst. Wasn’t there?

  Ruth is now in the kitchen too, Kelly by her side. She nods hello to Paul as she slips her phone back into her pocket. She appears to have forgotten her line of questioning because she says nothing further about Thailand. Instead, she asks, “Have any of you had any interaction at all with Dr Vijay Singh?”

  Paul’s the only one that looks at her blankly now, but I’m more confused than ever. What’s Tall, Dark and Handsome got to do with Thailand?

  “You mentioned him last night,” says Mum, now facing the detective. “Who is he? What’s going on?”

  “I just need to clarify whether you’ve ever met him, had any conversations or correspondence with him. I need to know the truth.”

  “No, we told you that yesterday,” she says. “But why? Why are you asking us that?”

  “Never mind,” is Ruth’s clipped reply, but my mum does mind, very much. She has abandoned the tea and is staring hard at the detective, arms on her hips.

  “Is that man involved? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Ruth looks at her patiently and seems to wrestle with an answer. Eventually she says, “Dr Singh has been at the scene of two other apparent suicides in the past eighteen months. His presence here is therefore somewhat suspicious.”

  “Why was he here?” Mum demands. “Who brought him?”

  “One of the guests.”

  “Which one?”

  Again with the hesitation, then, “Una Conway.”

  Mum’s eyes shoot straight to Dad, who is not looking up. Again. I wonder if he has any idea how shifty he looks? Has looked ever since he got home.

  Paul says, “Who is this bozo? What’s going on?”

  Another good question, thanks, Paul! I thought we’d eliminated that bozo. Five seconds ago he had a rock-solid alibi. Did Craig get that bit wrong? Did some new information come in?

  Ruth draws away from the bench. “I need to check something in your daughter’s room, Mrs May.”

  Mum blinks back at her, surprised by the subject change. “Um… sure… fine,” she stammers, before staring back at Dad.

  The detective glances between them, then turns and departs the kitchen, heading up the stairs towards my bedroom, her lapdog nipping at her heels.

  “What did Una do?” I hear Mum ask, her voice quivering now, like she is only just controlling her anger.

  “I don’t know,” Dad whispers.

  “You promised me you’d leave it alone!” she says, the control faltering. “You said it was a mistake, that it was over.”

  “It was! I had nothing to do with that.” He looks up, his eyes stricken. Every wrinkle on his face seems etched in charcoal, deeper, darker, almost gothic. “You think I would allow this? While we’re not here? You think I would let that man…?”

  Mum’s eyes narrow. “What? Let that man what?” Dad looks away again and Paul glances between them, worried.

 
; “What’s going on, Mum? Dad?”

  Mum folds her arms across her chest. “I don’t know what to think anymore, David. It’s a bloody mess.” And then she hisses. “You made it messy. It didn’t need to be!”

  Mum’s hiss cuts through to Ruth, who stops on the staircase and considers returning before seeing Mum storm past and out to the pool, a hand across her mouth like she’s smothering the screams or the sobs or something.

  Ruth resumes her climb upwards.

  My bedroom is a mess. The police have clearly ransacked it. I may not have unpacked properly, but I have always been neat and tidy. One glance at my room and you would think I was a slob. I am irate. How dare the police destroy my last resting place! (And no, I don’t count Dad’s study; there was no resting going on in there.)

  Ruth tells Kelly to wait at the door, then steps inside. She takes a moment to look around, then strides across to my bed, lifts up the pillow, then the quilt to look underneath. I have no idea what she’s looking for, but all I can see are fresh sheets and a lavender wheat pack. She bites her lower lip, then leans down and plunges one hand between the mattress and the wall. She fumbles around for a bit and then pulls out a semitransparent green plastic folder. There’s something inside—is that paper? Brochures? She glances at the folder briefly, flashes Kelly a victory smile, then wedges the folder under one arm and retreats.

  What the hell was that? Why are things being stashed down walls all of a sudden? I don’t recall putting that there. How did she find it, or more specifically, how did she know to look there?

  The plot thickens again, and I am more lost than ever.

  Chapter 24

  With a mug of tea in each hand, Paul steps out to the back deck and looks around. Mum is perched on the daybed, knees up, arms wrapped around her legs, fat tears dropping from her eyes. She sponges them up with a tissue as Paul closes in.

  He hands her a cup.

  “Thanks, love,” she says, sniffing into her Kleenex.