Do Not Go Alone (A Posthumous Mystery)

by C. A. Larmer

  “No worries.”

  He repositions some cushions and drops down beside her. And they sit like that for a bit, both sipping their tea, him staring out to the pool, looking constipated again. I know he’s confused. I know he has no clue what just happened, yet he doesn’t want to ask. I can feel his hesitation. And it annoys the hell out of me.

  Ask, you idiot! Find out! Stop being the evasive ostrich you’ve always been!

  I love Paul, can’t help that fact, but he’s always hidden from life, taken as few risks as possible. That’s why he married the first girl he met and had kids as soon as possible and lost himself in suburbia, six blocks down from his childhood house. For all his sleazing, for all his sins, at least Peter got out, got a career, got stuck into life. Paul just treads water, and right now all that treading is getting us nowhere.

  I used to admire his steady reticence once. I got it. I had a dash of it myself. Now it irritates me. I need him to butt in. I need him to interrogate our mother. She knows something. Dad knows something too. We need to know what that is.

  “You okay, Mum?” he eventually asks, and she sniffs again, then turns and offers him a comforting smile.

  I love the way she tries to comfort others when she’s so clearly in turmoil.

  “Really?” he persists.

  Good, I think, keep going!

  “’Course, yes, this isn’t going to break me, honey.” Then her smile firms up. “It won’t break you either, or your Dad. We’ll be okay.”

  Like he’s the one who needs consoling. He nods but does not look like he agrees.

  Then I hear his thoughts. Thoughts I wish he didn’t want me to hear.

  Fuck you, Maisie. Look what you’ve done.

  I look away, I race away, I don’t want to hear those thoughts. Victim blaming is one thing but from my own brother, my own flesh and blood! I’m sorry my murder has left a gaping hole and you’re all confused and hurting, but really, Paul? Really?

  It’s like I’ve been shot all over again.

  I shift away from the pool. I wander my old street, or at least as far as I can go. I see one set of neighbours heading off somewhere, hats on their heads. They’re smiling like it’s a new day, and I guess, for them—for everyone but me—it is. I see old Mrs Russo has swapped her floral nightie for a floral muumuu and is reaching for the rolled newspaper on her lawn. I’m sure my murder hasn’t made that early edition, but she’s ripping the plastic off, scanning the front pages. Is she looking for coverage of my death or just checking the weather report?

  I see a blue heeler galloping towards her. That dog looks familiar. I stop and watch for a bit.

  “Kasper! Kasp! Here boy! Come!”

  There’s a middle-aged man standing at the end of the road, a dark beanie on his head, muddy leash in his hands, and Mrs Russo steps back, wary, as the dog rushes up. But it just gives her a cursory sniff before turning back.

  “Good boy!” the man yells and holds a palm out to the woman. “Sorry about that!”

  She gives him a curt nod, then shuffles back up her path.

  I look at the man. He, too, looks familiar. I know I’ve seen him before. Why’s he wearing a woollen beanie? It’s already hot out.

  “Oi! You!”

  Roco is striding across the McGee’s front lawn, his clothes cruddy, his hair tufted up like a crazed clown, congealed blood just visible between his shirt and neck. He looks like the walking dead, and the man glances at him with a start, then grabs his dog’s collar and pulls him close.

  Roco notices the dog and slows his pace.

  “Can I help you?” the man says, dropping down to pat his stocky mutt’s white-and-bluish-black coat.

  “You came to the party last night; you were making threats,” Roco says, and the man gets back up, one hand still wrapped around his dog’s collar.

  “The music was loud,” he replies. “I just wanted the music down.”

  “You were going to call the cops.”

  “But I didn’t.” Then he frowns. “Perhaps I should have.”

  Roco stops, scowls, places his hands on his hips. “What does that mean?”

  “I heard what happened to that poor girl. The police came to my door.”

  Roco’s scowl deepens. He glances around the street, then back at the man and says, “Did you do it? Did you kill my friend?”

  And there it is.

  He’s officially disowned me three times. Not that I’m counting.

  The man reels back now, his dog barking at the sudden movement. “What? Are you insane? Why would you say that?”

  “Because you were angry, mate. You were making threats!”

  “I told you, it was late, I wanted the music off, and I didn’t think it was good for…” He lets that sentence dangle and pulls his beanie off. “Look, that’s all it was, okay? Why would I shoot somebody? Over music?”

  Roco stares hard at him now, but his tone is slightly calmer as he repeats the words, “But you were angry.” Then, shockingly he says, “I saw you, man. I saw you talking to Maisie.”

  The man stiffens considerably then, and sensing this, his dog begins to growl. “I just asked her to turn the music down. She said she would, and then I left.”

  “How do I know that?” Roco says, his tone darkening again. “It’s the last time I saw her alive. How do I know you didn’t do it?”

  I notice old Mrs Russo has not gone back inside; she is loitering by her door, listening in.

  The man notices, too, and has had enough. He leans down and attaches the leash to the dog’s collar. “I didn’t kill anybody.” He looks back at Roco and shakes his head. “Get a grip, lad. Maybe you and your mates need to ask yourselves what you were doing when it happened. Take a good, hard look at yourselves.”

  Then he pulls the leash tight and says, “Come on, Kasper.”

  Roco watches them depart, his arms now dangling by his side, as if he’s been deflated. He’s not sure whether to believe him, but I do. The memory is now as clear as the sunlight filtering through the flame tree overhead, and the man with the Blue Heeler is right.

  He did come to the house last night. I remember it now. It’s suddenly very, very clear. That man appeared just as my mother’s phone text came through.

  Neighbours worried, hun. Have u got people over? Everything okay?

  Except the ‘okay’ was a ‘thumbs-up’ emoji, and I remember being surprised. Mum was adapting faster than I thought.

  Before I could respond to her message, I heard a strange sound, a dog bark, and I looked up from the pool and back into the house. There was a man standing just inside the front door, his lanky frame silhouetted by the entrance light. He had his dog by his side and a phone in his hand. I’d seen him before, walking his dog in the street.

  “I’ve just spoken to your folks,” he told me when I made my way in. “They’re not happy about the party, and neither am I. It’s not good.”

  “I’m sorry,” I told him. I begged him not to call the police.

  “I’ll let it go for now,” he said. “Out of respect for Mandy and David and, well, everything that’s going on.” He couldn’t meet my eyes then as he shifted on his feet. “But it’s very late and you need to turn that music down and get some rest.”

  I promised I would and bid him good night.

  I bid him good night. I am sure of it. I am sure—aren’t I?—that he left the premises. Then I started down the hallway, determined not just to turn down the music but to turf everybody out. I was tired. Enough was enough. I’d tried to stop the party earlier, but my friends had laughed me off. Now I’d show them all I was serious, yet something stopped me. Something happened.

  Yes, I remember! Something caught my eye!

  Instead of heading back to the pool, I took a detour, to the right of the front door, in the direction of the study.

  What was it? What made me take that fatal detour, the last detour of my life?

  Chapter 25

  A high-pitched screech shakes the mem
ory away, and I see yet another kettle rattle at boiling point. It’s in the McGee kitchen this time, and Tammie is padding quickly towards it, looking panicked. She wants to shut it off before she “wakes the dead”—her thoughts, not mine.

  Why do women of a certain age assume a hot cup of tea will solve everything, heal all wounds, I wonder? And are they right? Is it as simple as that?

  As she pours the water into a chipped teapot, Una appears looking less dishevelled than Roco but equally as shell-shocked.

  “Coffee,” she mutters, her voice like a hung-over smoker. “I need coffee.”

  Tammie nods towards a high shelf where a plunger sits, then crosses to the pantry and pulls out a tin. Una retrieves the plunger, takes the tin, opens it and shakes some ground coffee in.

  As she waits for Tammie to refill the kettle and start the boiling process again, she glances out the kitchen window towards my house and flinches. She looks at Mrs McGee, who is now pulling out a frying pan, a carton of eggs on the bench top.

  Una wraps her wrinkled jacket tighter around her waist then deserts the kettle and opens the side kitchen door, rushing out. I assume she is heading for Roco, who is now seated on a mouldy lawn chair, head in his hands. Is he weeping?

  We don’t get a chance to find out. Una completely bypasses him and is striding down the McGee driveway and across the road in the direction of my house, her eyes staring straight ahead. She looks determined, but she also looks nervous. She scrapes fingers through her long tresses as she goes, wipes the sleep from her eyes.

  I see what Una is looking at now. Who. It’s my dad, and he is standing at the bottom of the driveway, dropping glass bottles into the recycling bin. He sees her, stops and waits for her to cross over, his face a blank mask.

  Are they really going to do this now? With my mother sobbing by the pool and detectives crawling the place?

  “David,” Una says stiffly. She offers him a grim smile when she gets closer. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  He does not smile back.

  “Why did you bring him?” Dad bursts out, and she looks surprised by this. It is not what she is expecting, yet she knows who he means because she answers quickly.

  “I didn’t realise. I didn’t think.”

  “You could get us into big trouble, Una. It’s not over, you know? This whole thing could blow up.”

  “It won’t. We didn’t do anything. We’re innocent. They’ve got nothing on us.”

  “Bullshit,” he spits, and I recoil.

  I have never heard my father use language like that, certainly not to a woman. He coughs, clears his throat. Settles his temper down.

  “Sorry, Una.” He takes a deep breath. “Sorry, but it was stupid. The whole thing was stupid. I don’t know how you talked me into it. I don’t know how I could possibly have gone through with it.”

  “You were coming from a place of love,” she says. “We both were—”

  “I wasn’t thinking! I was a fool.”

  “I know, I’m sorry…” She goes to reach out to him, but he has backed away.

  He shakes his head, his whole body shaking alongside it, then he smashes the last bottle into the bin and strides back up the driveway.

  “Wait!” she calls out, and he stops, his back to her. “I left you something. On your desk. Did you get it?”

  She can’t see his face, but I can. He looks puzzled but I’m not.

  She left you a love letter, you idiot! She penned you sweet nothings and left it on your desk for Mum to find. Probably reminiscing about your romantic rendezvous in Thailand. The cow.

  But hang on. That doesn’t add up.

  Una has that love letter in her pocket, doesn’t she? Vijay swiped it from Dad’s desk last night and handed it back to her a few hours ago. I saw him!

  So what’s Una talking about? Is it that boarding pass? Was she returning it?

  “I need to talk to you,” she persists. “I need to show you something—”

  “Later!” he growls, still not looking at her.

  “But it’s important, David, you’ll want to—”

  “I said later!”

  “But, David—”

  “Una, please!” He’s facing her now, and his fury has morphed into despair. He looks across to her like a small child premeltdown, his lower lip quivering, his eyes swelling up. “Please, Una. Whatever it is, I can’t face it now. I just can’t…”

  Then he turns and shuffles like a geriatric up the driveway.

  Detective Ruth is standing at the top, just by the front door. She has seen the whole thing, although what she has heard I cannot tell. Dad stops when he sees her, then growls something unintelligible to himself and continues walking, scooping up the day’s newspaper before sweeping past her and into the house.

  In the kitchen he tosses the rolled-up paper on the bench and throws open the fridge. As he stares into it, not hungry, not really seeing the contents, Ruth approaches.

  “You want to tell me about Thailand now, Mr May? About your trip with Ms Conway?” Her tone is mild but firm.

  Mum is still at the pool with Paul. Seems as good a time as ever.

  He slams the door shut, turns and then leans against it.

  “It was a mistake.”

  “Actually, it was a lot more than that. It’s a federal offence.”

  Adultery? Since when?

  He flinches. “We didn’t go ahead with it. You must know that.”

  “I know nothing of the sort. I’m supposed to just believe you, am I?”

  He blinks back tears, his throat now choked. “Believe what the hell you want. I loved her. I loved her deeply.” His voice cracks.

  “Enough to commit murder, Mr May?”

  His eyes flood with something I can’t quite recognise. Is it guilt? Regret?

  Then he surprises me by smiling, but it’s not a happy smile. It is giddy and ugly and full of shame. “That’s the sad irony, Detective Powell. Despite everything, I clearly didn’t love her enough.”

  Then he slides down the fridge to the floor, drops his head into his chest and weeps like a baby.

  My heart is shattering, shattering, shattering, but I have no time to pick up the pieces or put any of that together because another squad car has just pulled up out the front. I watch with misery as Craig and the ponytailed officer step out. What was her name again? Did we ever find out? The woman remains by the car while Craig walks up the driveway and lets himself straight in the house. It’s amazing how quickly the force take over your home when a crime has occurred. How politeness and protocol are so quickly abandoned.

  He finds Ruth in the kitchen, squatting down, patting Dad’s back. Their eyes lock, and she gets up. She steps out of the kitchen and down the hallway.

  “He all right?” Craig asks, which is touching, I suppose, but she waves him on. As I said, there’s no time for that shit.

  He pulls something from his jacket, several A4 pages stapled together.

  “Just got the pathologist’s preliminary report,” he says, thrusting it towards her. “Brought it straight over.”

  She snatches the sheets from him and scans the details. Frowns.

  “That’s not the best bit,” he says. “Read the next page.”

  She turns to the next sheet and continues reading, her eyebrows lifting, her head nodding suddenly.

  “It was on her breasts,” he says, sounding excited. “Only one set of fingerprints, and it’s a match. Should we have pulled her top down last night and found it ourselves?”

  “No, no,” Ruth replies, sounding eerily calm while my mind starts spinning in all sorts of directions, most of them pretty horrendous.

  What are they talking about? Why would they need to pull my top down? What did they find on my breasts of all places? Did the killer scribble something? Leave a calling card?

  Ruth doesn’t look at all perturbed, if anything she looks rather pleased by all this. Then she has the audacity to say, “Okay. Good. She took her own life. Well that’s a relief.�
��

  Say, what?

  I give my head a metaphorical shake. I try to let those words sink in.

  She. Took. Her. Own. Life.

  Er, no, Detective. No I bloody didn’t!

  “Let’s pack up,” Ruth is saying. “Let’s get this finalised.”

  I turn and glare at the tunnel, which is infuriatingly empty again. Where is smug boy now? Where is the condescending middle-aged chick?

  How many times do I have to tell you people! I did not kill myself! I would not do that to my family, to my loved ones!

  And, frankly, I am outraged that the lead investigator now believes I did.

  I try to scramble my thoughts together. Why isn’t Ruth thinking clearly? There is so much evidence, so many suspects, and I’m not just talking this latest snippet, which has got me in a fluster. What on earth could they possibly have found on my breasts? And whose fingerprints are they talking about?

  Forget that for now. We have plenty more to work with.

  What about the dodgy “doctor” who has a history of murder and been up on multiple charges? I thought Una must have inadvertently brought him over, but maybe there was nothing inadvertent about it. We’ve all been preoccupied with pathetic pink envelopes and extramarital antics, but now the memory of all those hundred dollar bills flashes back. I know Vijay swiped that envelope. Did he also take the cash? Or did it belong to him? Did he earn it somehow? Did he then ditch it down the sofa to avoid incrimination?

  I know it sounds outlandish, but what if Vijay was a hired gun? What if Una hired him for some reason? I’m not saying she hired him to kill me, but maybe I got in the way?

  All right, it’s beyond crazy, it’s ludicrous. Let’s forget about him for a moment and put the whole ugly Vijay-Una-Dad combo to one side. We still have half a dozen suspects who haven’t been properly scrutinised.

  What about that aggressive neighbour with the blue dog? Did anyone stop to investigate his background? He came into my house. He threatened me. Did he follow me into Dad’s office and leave his mark, in more ways than one?

  What about my brothers? Come on, how suspicious have they been acting? I know they love me—I get that—but it doesn’t mean they didn’t do this thing. They clearly had their own troubles; they clearly begrudged the help my parents were giving me. I wonder now if Dad was selling Nevercloud, not for Mum but to help me. Is that why they are so angry with me? Is that why it’s all Peter can think about now?