Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set

by Rodney Strong

‘Why did you stop?’

  (It wasn’t fun anymore. Okay you can take the picture away now.)

  Gratefully he closed the window.

  Violet was silent for a while, maybe reminiscing about the old times, or in her case the young times. Oliver wrestled with the problem all through the takeaway dinner, because he couldn’t be bothered cooking, and a bath time that turned into a recreation of Jaws. Reed was the shark and Rose the victim, although halfway through she forgot her role and kicked her brother in the testicles. As Reed howled in pain, Oliver winced and mused that it was probably time they started having separate baths.

  Later while they lay in bed reading Jennifer commented that Oliver had been quiet all evening. Hamstrung from telling her the complete truth, he gave a version, phrasing it as the plot of his book. The hero needed information and didn’t know how to get it.

  ‘In the movies the hero would just hack into the store computer to get the info,’ she offered.

  Oliver’s computer skills were limited to surfing the internet and using a word-processing programme. ‘Not really something this character could do.’

  ‘Okay then you’ve got two options. Either he breaks into the shop in the middle of the night…’

  Yes!

  ‘Or?’ he prompted, ignoring Violet.

  ‘Or he goes to the people who already have the information and asks them directly.’

  ‘Who has the information?’

  She shook her head in mock sadness. ‘The police of course.’

  (She’s smart.)

  ‘The police,’ he repeated. ‘That makes sense.’

  (Smarter than you.)

  ‘You sound surprised.’ Jennifer grinned at him, then dove back into the Sudoku she was wrestling with.

  Oliver thought about it. All he had to do was ring Detective Wilson and ask him the name of the painting, because…. And that’s where he drew a blank. Could he say it was idle curiosity?

  (You are a bit slow sometimes aren’t you? Just leave the thinking to me, and say everything I tell you.)

  You know, I’m getting a little tired of your attitude.

  (Tough, I’m not going to change it and you’re stuck with me for now, attitude and all.)

  ‘Are you sure it’s just the book that’s gotten you worried honey?’ Jennifer asked him.

  ‘Just lots on my mind. Nothing major to worry about.’ He smiled reassuringly.

  (Tell her you have a woman on your mind.)

  Shut up.

  Twelve

  It took a while to settle his nerves the next morning long enough to call Detective Wilson. He picked up and put down the phone several times before finally dialling the number. Violet had run through her plan, which Oliver thought was terrible, but lacking any alternatives he reluctantly agreed to do it. He was worried the detective would see through his ploy and know he was up to something.

  ‘Mr Atkinson, I understand you had no luck at the shop.’

  ‘That’s right. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Detective Wilson reassured him. ‘The painting not being there was more helpful than you realise.’

  ‘Right,’ Oliver said in confusion.

  ‘So, what can I do for you? Have you thought of something else?’ Even down the phone line his voice oozed with the confidence of someone used to being told things without even asking.

  ‘No, not really, I mean…’ Oliver stumbled, then Violet took over. With her whispering in his head, he proceeded with more confidence. ‘It’s been bothering me since I first saw the painting in the shop. I almost recognised it, like I’d seen it somewhere before. I heard the owner of the shop tell that woman it was valuable. And I guess I’m worried – like, what if this is all the work of some international art thieves and they think I have the painting? What if they come after me and my family?’

  The response that came down the phone line was heavy with amusement. ‘Mr Atkinson, I don’t believe you and your family are in any danger from international art thieves. The painting was by Gordon Fairbrother, a New Zealand artist, and while it is undoubtedly worth something, it’s highly unlikely that something is enough to garner attention from deadly criminals.’

  ‘Thank goodness.’ Oliver’s relief was genuine.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Atkinson, have you had any further contact from Violet Tumbleton?’

  Panic flooded Oliver and his hands started to shake.

  (Just say no.)

  ‘N–n–n–no.’

  (Way to sound confident.)

  ‘Are you sure Mr Atkinson? Nothing you’d like to tell me?’

  (There is no possible way he knows about us meeting her yesterday. Say no like you mean it.)

  ‘No,’ Oliver said more firmly. ‘Nothing.’

  Detective Wilson made a little sceptical-sounding noise and hung up.

  (You need to learn to lie better.)

  ‘Shut up,’ he said irritably, as he did an internet search on Gordon Fairbrother, who apparently was quite a well-known New Zealand artist from the 1950s. According to one website, his work had become highly sought after in recent years, and began to fetch prices in the high five figure range. Another website had thumbnails and it didn’t take long for Oliver to find the right picture. Painted in 1953 and titled Sunset over the Island, it was a stunning picture, even to an art novice like Oliver. Bright orange and red covered the top half of the canvas, the colours washing down over the dark brown of an island sitting amongst still mirror-like water.

  (It’s beautiful.)

  ‘Yes, it is,’ he agreed.

  (Not as beautiful as my painting obviously, but still.)

  Oliver rolled his eyes, then read the blurb below the picture. ‘The painting has been missing for over fifty years,’ he read out loud, then added, ‘The website reckons it would fetch well over twenty thousand dollars.’

  (That’s a fortune.)

  ‘It’s a lot of money, but is it worth killing for? I just don’t see it.’

  (I knew a girl who got killed for eating someone’s sandwich. People will do horrible things for strange reasons.)

  Oliver thought about all the news items from around the world, of senseless deaths and destruction, and reluctantly agreed.

  ‘If it hasn’t been seen in decades, where did Fake Violet get it?’

  9And where is it now? And who knew it was there? And who would kill for it?)

  ‘I hate to say it, but it could still be her.’

  (But why take the painting there in the first place if she was going to steal it back?)

  ‘Maybe she changed her mind and went back to get it, and Peter Yarrow interrupted her, so she killed him.’

  (Again, why steal it? She could have just gone back the next day and picked it up. And she acted genuinely concerned when you told her the police asked about the painting.)

  ‘Yeah because she killed a man!’

  (Why are you so sure she’s guilty?)

  ‘Why are you defending a woman who stole your name?’

  Lacking a physical person to glare at, Oliver glared at the fridge which remained immune to his frustrations.

  ‘And why take it to an antique shop and not an art dealer?’ he wondered.

  For the next twenty minutes he pecked at the keyboard like a starving chicken scratching in the dirt, moving from website to website, and building up a history of Sunset over the Island – which wasn’t much.

  The painting had debuted at a gallery in Wellington in March 1953, where it had been bought by Joseph Darcy, a Member of Parliament and well-known art collector.

  Two weeks later it had been stolen from Mr Darcy’s home while he was away, and it was never seen again – with the exception of an incident in the seventies where the painting was presented to a local auction house, generating much interest from the art world. Gordon Fairbrother had died in 1968 which meant, according to the unwritten rule of the art world, his work had subsequently skyrocketed. The auction house had been extrem
ely excited to have the painting – until someone thought to contact the legal owner, who was still alive. Joseph Darcy, despite being in his eighties with failing health, immediately declared the painting a forgery, and it was withdrawn from the auction.

  ‘So how did Fake Violet get it?’ Oliver mused.

  (We need to find her and ask.)

  ‘I suppose, except the last time we saw her she called the police on us.’

  (We have to try. She could be in trouble.)

  Oliver snorted. ‘I don’t think she’s who we have to worry about.’

  (One thing is weird though.)

  ‘Only the one?’

  (Why is she hanging around? The police are looking for her about a murder. Why not just skip town?)

  Oliver mulled it over. ‘There must be something keeping her here.’

  (But what?)

  ‘How the hell should I know?’ he snapped.

  (Touchy.)

  He went to apologise, then stopped, refusing to be sorry about stating the obvious. Glancing at his watch he calculated the time needed to get into the city and do a decent search before heading back to the school. All the driving was playing havoc on his petrol budget.

  Picking up his wallet and car keys, he was heading for the garage when the phone rang. The number was blocked and for a moment he considered rejecting the call. It was bound to be someone wanting to sell him something he already had, or didn’t want. For no particular reason he pressed the answer button instead.

  ‘Hello, Oliver speaking.’

  ‘Hello, Oliver speaking. I thought I’d better check you didn’t get into too much trouble with the police.’

  Violet figured it out before he did. It’s her!

  ‘How did you…’ he faltered.

  ‘Find you? Funny, I’m still wondering that about you.’ Her voice was low; in the background cups rattled and there was a buzz of muted conversation.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I was about to ask you the same question.’ She sounded relaxed, and slightly amused. Not the voice of a woman on the run for murder.

  (Ask her if she killed him.)

  ‘Did you kill the shop owner?’ He held his breath, waiting for her reaction.

  When she replied, her voice had lost its lightness.

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  Oliver searched the three words for deception, but found nothing other than an honest confession. ‘If you’re innocent then why not go to the police.’

  ‘I never said I was innocent. I just didn’t kill anyone.’

  (What does that mean?)

  ‘She obviously stole the painting,’ he said.

  ‘Who’s talking about a painting?’ Fake Violet replied.

  ‘The police for a start.’

  Fake Violet was quiet for a long time. The background noise faded into silence. ‘I wanted to say sorry for calling the police on you. It would be better for us if this was our last contact.’ She hung up before Oliver could respond.

  (She seemed nice.)

  ‘Yeah, she did,’ he admitted.

  (Are you kidding me! She stole my name, probably stole the painting as well, and most likely killed a man.)

  ‘But she said she didn’t do it,’ he said weakly.

  (Oh, well, that’s okay then. Idiot.)

  Oliver ignored the insult. ‘The painting is still the key. If we find where that came from we might find out more about her.’

  (So you’re not going to listen to her threat?)

  ‘What threat?’

  (She told you it would be better for both of you if that was the last contact.)

  ‘That’s not a threat.’ Oliver laughed.

  (You don’t know women at all, do you? When she said it would be better for you both, she meant it would be better for you. She was telling you to get lost.)

  Oliver’s face scrunched in confusion. ‘Really?’

  (How have you been married all this time?)

  ‘I’m not a complete moron,’ he snapped. ‘I speak enough woman to survive.’

  (Woman? We’re not a different species you know.)

  ‘Sometimes I wonder,’ he muttered. ‘Anyway, I don’t need an interpreter to know that you aren’t leaving until we get this sorted out, and I want you gone.’

  (And here I was thinking we were getting on so well.)

  Oliver didn’t say the first thing that came to his mind, but Violet gasped.

  Thirteen

  Violet wanted to start straight away, but Oliver explained Rose’s class was presenting at the school assembly.

  The hall was empty of school children when he did the awkward shuffle down the row to an empty seat, stumbling over feet and pre-schoolers in equal measure. He exchanged words of greeting with one or two of the mothers. Most of the parents were mothers, with the occasional business suited father dotted throughout. Oliver felt a little self-conscious in his jeans and faded brown T-shirt.

  One by one the classes filed in and sat on the ground. As the numbers swelled Violet expressed her amazement.

  There’re over four hundred children here.

  (Four hundred! There were fifty at my school, and half the time most of them were too hungry or sick to come.)

  ‘Where did you go to school?’ The words were out before he remembered. The woman next to him thought Oliver was talking to her and launched into a long story about how her parents moved around a lot and she went to five different primary schools. Thankfully she was cut off by the principal calling for silence.

  (Wadestown School.)

  What was that like? he asked as the first class was introduced, who were showing off their cats, or faces, or trees – it was hard to tell from the back of the room.

  (I don’t know, I was mostly too hungry or sick to go.)

  Oliver’s jaw dropped, which the mother sitting next to him misinterpreted as criticism of her daughter’s green and purple cat. She shot him a dirty look and red faced he adopted what he hoped was a more interested expression.

  Rose’s class was up next and his daughter strode to the centre of the stage like she owned it, practically grabbing the microphone from the teacher.

  ‘My picture is of my cat. Her name is Rainbow Sparkle and she is black and purple and orange.’

  (I didn’t think your cat was purple and orange.)

  He’ll be surprised to know that too.

  ‘She likes to eat mice and dogs and my brother.’ Rose gave a smug look to where Reed was sitting on the floor, then handed the microphone back to the teacher and joined the rest of her class. While he was completely proud of her imagination, he knew he’d hear all about her brother-eating cat from Reed.

  Trapped in the middle of a row, Oliver had to sit through the rest of the assembly. Some of the presentations were quite good, but he felt his life wasn’t necessarily any richer from seeing a group of eight-year-olds pretending to be insects. From all the giggling going on in his head, though, Violet was loving it.

  By the time they filed out of the school hall there was only a short time until the end of the school day. Oliver waited around, chatting about inconsequential things with the other parents.

  When the bell rang, his two children found him relatively quickly. They knew that Friday’s were dance day, so there was no mucking around after school. Oliver liked dance days, mainly because it was the only day of the week Reed didn’t ask for an ice cream after school, and Oliver was spared the battle of saying no. Or worse, saying no and then giving in just to shut them up which happened on average once a week.

  They hustled to the car, and battled their way through traffic from one side of town to the other, arriving at the dance school with five minutes to spare. Rose and Reed disappeared into the appropriate studios, he to hip hop, she to musical theatre. Their choices for dance styles matched their individual personalities. Reed loved bopping away, with all the enthusiasm and rhythm of a six-year-old white boy, while Rose loved playing pretend.

  Usually Oliver pulled his phone
out and sat in the waiting room for the thirty minutes the classes lasted. But Violet wasn’t having a bar of it.

  (I want to see them dance.)

  I’ve seen it all before, he insisted.

  (Well I haven’t. And I will start singing if you don’t put that thing away.)

  With a sigh he complied, then slipped through the door of Rose’s dance class. They were going through some warm-up exercises, Rose showing a new student how to do it. As he watched his bossy daughter, Oliver felt a lump in his throat. Sometimes he was so busy trying to be the dad, and making sure they were fed and watered and clothed, he forgot that they were little people he had help create.

  The group finished their warm-ups and went straight into a number from the musical Annie. There was a touch of irony about his slightly spoilt daughter singing about it being a hard knock life, but the smile on her face was magic.

  (She’s very good.)

  ‘Damn straight she is’, he murmured.

  (When I was a young girl, my friend and I used to sneak into the outdoor concerts at the Botanical Gardens. We’d hide behind a tree and dance until we dropped. If Dad had ever caught me dancing to jazz he would have thumped me. Mind you, he did that anyway.)

  Oliver shifted uncomfortably as Violet talking about being beaten in a matter of fact tone.

  (Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t need sympathy.)

  She didn’t speak for a while and when she did her voice was wistful. (I miss dancing.)

  As if the universe heard her, the dance teacher called for the parents to join the class.

  (Oh, yes.)

  ‘No, thanks,’ Oliver replied.

  (Spoil-sport.)

  After fifteen minutes Oliver went into the studio next door where Reed was going through his paces. The latest hit music blared through wall-mounted speakers and the instructors had smiles plastered on their faces as the beginner class tried desperately to follow them.

  (What is this?)

  Hip hop.

  (It’s so…expressive. I love it. Dad would have had a heart attack if he saw me dancing like that.) There was a hint of amusement in her voice.

  That night, while the kids watched a DVD in the other room, Oliver glued himself to the evening news. The murder had been bumped out of top spot by the latest politician to resign. Deputy Prime Minister Matthew Darcy was interviewed and provided a glowing reference for the ousted member of his party.